


Closure, Or Something Like It

by Winter_Genisis



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Addiction, Consensual Violence, Drunk Sex, M/M, Mention of Underage Sex, Past Infidelity, Sexual Violence, Slight Violence, Slurs, Top England (Hetalia), also my arthur is a wreck, back in the days, be warned, because fran likes pain, but some people don't like top england, but there's a mention of incest, don't remember what they are tho, for i guess anyone who would be squicked idfk, i don't see the countries being related at all, i just don't wanna get yelled at, in every universe, it's not really that bad though and it fits the time period, it's ritualized, mention of underage rape, more characters may be added, more slurs in the third chapter, not even by blood, nothing too graphich though, so i won't say it's incest, so prepare to be offended omg, so there is an slur against islam in the second chapter, super minor though, well they can switch, wow that's a tag okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9443219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_Genisis/pseuds/Winter_Genisis
Summary: One drunken night leads to complications in the relationship between Arthur and Francis. Can they rectify their mistakes from the past? Will they be able to find love in each other ever again? Especially after Arthur is such an ass?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> 1) Well, this is my venture into fanfiction after over a year of not writing anything. This is a 3 chapter fic. Everything is plotted out, and I have already begun writing chapter two. I intend to post it this coming Sunday (1/23) EST.
> 
> 2) This will be gone over again, but I know it's riddled with mistakes so please let me know what there is here.
> 
> 3)My Arthur is a wreck. A fucking wreck. No matter the fic or the universe he is an absolute wreck. Please forgive us both.
> 
> 4) Playlist for writing the chapter included Blackheart by Two Steps From Hell, Star Sky by Two Steps from Hell, Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons, Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons, Don't Trust Me by 30H!3, Hopeless Wanderer by Mumford and Sons
> 
> TW: drunk sex, addiction, general slurs, slight violence, hints at "incest" (in quotes because I don't see it like that, and I don't see any of the countries being related by blood)

_You were never much for the arts, but all the same, you think it rather like a dance. A dangerous dance of whirling blades, raging fists and stray bullets._

_You'd never say so to anyone else, but you think them both beautiful in their own way._

_Suddenly the boat tips a bit too far; your crew and much of the invading crew are thrown over to port side. Not so with the captains: Arthur jumps from the fighting top on the foremast, catching hold of a piece of rigging down to the mizzenmast. The French pirate meets him, step for step, on the crow's nest, for a moment gaining the advantage of height._

_You are interrupted from watching momentarily by an aggressor to your right. You slice him down without thought. It is not for lack of skill that you are distracted by the captains: as the quartermaster, you can_ afford _a little distraction, you think._

_The frog suddenly lands hard on his back toward the aft of the spar deck. People of both crews scatter like rats found amongst cargo, but you lean in for a closer look. Not too close, though; you wouldn't wish to be caught in the crossfire._

_A shiver runs through you when you see the look the frog's eyes. Not for the first time, you think that he cannot be human. The same goes for your own illustrious captain, who lands as delicately as a cat on the rails of the quarterdeck. His eyes burn like Saint Elmo's Fire as he stares his opponent down, a vicious grin appearing on his visage in a harsh, toothy gash._

_Everyone believes he aims to kill. Those who have been around for a while (but not quite as long as you) know that these two are arch enemies, and have been performing such dances for longer than anyone knows. But_ you _—you think you know better. You have been with your captain for many turns of the tide, longer than anyone on your crew. And you are starting to think that maybe, just_ maybe _, those near misses of the dagger are purposeful. Those bullets erring by a hair's breadth might not be missing their target at all, if their aim is true._

_You think that perhaps these two inhuman beings, these men who are godlike in their speed, strength and their ferocity, would be nothing without each other. You suspect that this dance they do means much more to either of them than they would ever dare tell._

It wasn't often that so many of them could gather recreationally like this. Arthur had been told that Alisdair and Grainne wanted to come, but couldn't make it. Francis had kept assuring him over and over, at least in the beginning, that they would be there soon. The Brit didn't understand why he bothered with the pretense. If they weren't coming, they weren't coming; they rarely travelled with Arthur to conferences anyway.

Besides, he knew where he stood with his _so-called family_. He didn't understand why they kept insisting on calling each other family, either. There was nothing really tying them together, certainly not blood. Arthur had angrily sucked on his lip piercing and glared at Francis every time he brought it up. It was easier to deal with being the hated, odd black sheep out when people didn't point it out.

They'd just had a meeting in Brussels, and decided to go drinking at a popular pub by Laura's recommendation. Arthur had noticed with little to no sentiment that Laura had not spoken directly to him for the duration of the meeting of Nations.

… Probably still a bit irritated about that whole Brexit thing. Well, she'd get over it. She certainly found her voice when he got her into bed last month. The memory gave him satisfaction—the thought of her deliciously rounded, soft body squirming under his, so sensitive and so perfectly responsive to his touches and his tongue. He licked his lips, unconsciously poking at his lip ring a bit more. His dress pants were beginning to get slightly uncomfortable, but even though he was sitting next to Alfred he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

The next round of drinks was on Gilbert, and for the life of him, Arthur couldn't figure out where all of that man's money came from. He was, technically speaking, a "retired" Nation (it wasn't publicized exactly, but he couldn't bear to think of the Prussian how others sometimes did: on the decline, not a Nation, a ghost of the past) but the fact was, it kept coming. Many secretly thought that perhaps Ludwig gave him an allowance of sorts. Arthur disagreed. Gilbert had far too much money for a simple allowance, even if the amount given was generous.

Regardless of where it came from, Arthur had never been one to reject more alcohol and gleefully (read: purposefully) ignored Francis's disapproving glare. He'd only become so interested in Arthur's drinking habits after he dumped the man.

Alfred laughed heartily at something the Brit didn't catch – laughed right in his ear, in fact. He didn't even wince, too used to the obnoxious American to get annoying with just that. He sighed wearily nonetheless and brought a hand up, fingers playing in one of his gauges as though that could assuage the ringing in his ears.

"Dude that's so gross! Don't touch it!" Alfred swatted his hand away, and Arthur turned to glower at him slowly, his expression one of extreme disdain and the flickering embers of anger. He looked at Alfred's hand, then back at the boy.

"Fuck. Off."

"Oh, leave the boy alone." Francis tossed a pretzel bite at Arthur. The Brit growled, and suddenly he was being held down by arms of steel.

"Stop it, Artie." Alfred admonished. Matthew could be just barely overheard through the din of the pub, chiding his papa about throwing food.

Ludwig, to everyone's surprise, gave a big belly laugh, his cheeks flushing lightly and his hair perfectly mussed, making him appear much too sexed up for Arthur's eyes. He licked his lips, only realizing he was staring when the German's smooth, deep voice hit him like a ton of bricks.

"This is why we can't have nice things!" The German exclaimed, for once smiling warmly at his colleagues. Such a disarming thing. Such an innocent thing. Arthur wanted to break him.

He'd had the chance to break him… Why hadn't he just fucked him when they were occupying Berlin? He couldn't remember. He absolutely could not come up with any good reason why he had not fucked this man yet.

Suddenly movement to the side of Ludwig brought Arthur's attention away from the blond. He realized then that he'd nearly gone blind to all else… and someone had noticed. Gilbert was running gentle fingers through his brother's hair and glaring murderously at Arthur.

"I think it's about time that we head out."

"But," Ludwig glanced over, surprised. "I'm not _that_ drunk, you _know_ that!" It was so strange to see him like this, from stern and authoritative to almost childish.

The albino rubbed his back soothingly. "I know, and I never said you were. We're leaving anyway. Do you understand?" His tone was gentle, but brooked no argument. "I realize you don't like it, and I'm sorry. But you know I have my reasons. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

Arthur watched quietly as they left, and noticed Francis doing the same. He had suspicions about the sort of relationship they had. But it might be better to leave those unspoken, out of respect for Gilbert if nothing else.

"I'm surprised that Arthur has lasted as long as he has." Francis wheedled, leaning in close over the table. "I remember when our little black sheep would pass out from one flagon of strong mead."

Matthew audibly slammed his head on the table and Alfred groaned much too loudly. Arthur's ears were ringing again.

"You guys are so _old_!"

"You piece of shit, that was my first time drinking mead!" Arthur flung back, his words hardly slurring as much as he thought they should by now.

"And you were the cutest little thing, weren't you?" The Frenchman jeered. "Such a _sweet_ boy. What the hell happened?" It was a joke, but it slammed into Arthur like a fist. It was the guilt, the weight of unnumbered sins suddenly sitting like lead in his chest that suddenly made this all too real. It didn't feel like it was just banter, anymore.

He stood abruptly, ignoring the looks of confusion on his companions' faces, and staggered to the door, already pulling out one of his favored clove cigarettes. Shit. He'd forgotten his coat in the pub. Mentally shrugging, he steeled himself to the biting wind outside and lit up, shielding his cigarette from the gales with a practiced hand.

_What happened?_

He leaned against the building and took a long, deep drag, before exhaling and magicking his smoke into shapes. A ship, a sword, a gun.

"They can take the savage out of the ocean, but they can't take the ocean out of the savage."

It wasn't a particularly eloquent statement, and Arthur figured that was good enough for when he spun around and socked the Frenchman in the jaw. He stumbled back, a look of shock briefly crossing his face before his visage was blocked. Suddenly Arthur had some sort of fabric tossed over his face, and though he scrambled to remove it he was on the ground in less than a second.

He threw off the offending fabric, growling low in his throat, "That was low, even for you."

"I bring your coat out for you and you punch me in the face?" Francis delivered Arthur a strong kick in the chest, before planting it firmly against his sternum. "That's not very nice."

For a moment, Arthur pretended to struggle underneath Francis's very fashionable foot, causing a satisfied smile to appear on the other's face. It dropped immediately, however, when Arthur's legs came up and grabbed Francis by the hips, twisting and forcing him to lose his balance. In a flash it was Arthur standing and Francis on the ground. He quickly backed up a few paces, giving his opponent room.

It was the dance they'd always done, altered now perhaps without guns or boats—but the same nevertheless.

"I don't need a coat if this is what we're going to be doing." He purred the words in the low, sexy way he knew Francis liked, and caught his eyes flicking up and down Arthur's body at the obvious double entendre. For a moment Arthur regretted the suit he still wore – it was quite fitted and sharp on him, but he felt his street clothes would not only be better suited for this activity but would give Francis a bit more to look at.

It was just the barest pause, and Francis was launching himself at Arthur.

"You insufferable—"

"—arrogant and lazy—"

"—a hopeless, drug addicted—"

"—gluttonous fool—"

"—wouldn't know good food if it sank down on your dick—"

"You know you fucking want to—"

"Slut."

Arthur jumped back, sporting a nice shiner and a bleeding lip and gums where his labret smashed into his mouth. Francis was a bit worse for wear, the Brit was pleased to note. That last insult hit close to home, though, and Arthur wasn't eager to reengage after that.

"You know I'm right." Francis murmured darkly, and Arthur had to make a conscious effort not to take a step back. There were few times when Francis wore that expression, something so sinister and dangerous that for a moment Arthur could believe that this man in front of him was one of Rome's descendants. But it wasn't that expression that made Arthur's chest give an uncomfortable squeeze. It was what he knew Francis to be thinking.

"Why are you bringing this up now?" It was practically a whisper, the whipping wind nearly overcoming Arthur's voice.

Francis appeared suddenly very much as a startled rabbit, and Arthur was afraid he knew exactly what the man was about to say. He felt drawn to him, in that moment, and didn't even feel himself stepping forward. He hardly noticed until he was right in front of him, clearly seeing the way his flesh reddened with cold and drink, all too vividly seeing the pale blond eyelashes and the barely perceptible smile lines framing plump, smooth lips. He wondered idly if Francis would be bothered by his own chapped lips.

"I don't know." It was an obvious lie, and it came out in the quietest whoosh of air, Arthur wouldn't have been able to hear it otherwise.

It started misting, then, something that so light though sent a fog up into the air. Francis looked like a pale, golden wraith—something otherworldly—and Arthur felt almost rebuked for thinking of him so sexually. How dare he think himself worthy to touch such an ethereal being?

Arthur was never one to pay mind to such thoughts—at least not in the moment—and reached up ever so slowly, as though Francis might take flight, or perhaps even disappear into the night like a dream, affirming to Arthur that this strange moment had never happened at all.

_He shouldn't do this._

His hand cupped Francis's cheek so gently, and he barely had time to wonder how such calloused hands felt against such a soft face before he felt a jolt of electricity run through him. Francis placed a hand over top of Arthur's, and gave him such an expressive look, filled with such sadness it was almost alarming.

Arthur didn't want to give thought to these rather deep emotions, so he kissed him. It was unexpectedly electrifying, and he acted by deepening the kiss almost immediately. Francis issued this soft, surprised little sound, something almost inaudible and nearly drowned out by the wind—and the slightly startling wolf whistle off to the side. Francis broke away to glare and Arthur flipped them off – it was only Alfred.

Wait. _Shit._

Arthur risked a glance at Francis, who seemed unconcerned. Rather, his expression was all too warm; simply too welcoming and inviting. Arthur decided after perhaps half a second that he couldn't care less if Alfred knew what was going on (not that Arthur himself knew what was going on), and he instead kissed Francis again, drawing him close. It was a feeling unlike anything he'd experienced, at least not lately, and he shivered – it was like coming home. He never wanted to part from this man, never again. Unfortunately, they did have to breathe with these wretched, human-like bodies, so when they pulled apart they were panting heavily. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, willing to pretend that the wetness he felt on Francis's cheeks, on his lips, was from the heavy mist hanging in the air, as though weighed down by something. Francis's forehead thunked against Arthur's.

"You still taste the same. Alcohol and cigarettes." A pause. "And rain."

Arthur snorted, not willing to speak for fear of antagonizing Francis. Just now, that was perhaps the last thing he wanted to do.

"Would you like to take shelter with me from this horribly inclement weather?"

This time, Arthur did speak. "You're still awful at pickup lines when you're drunk." A small smile crept onto his face.

Francis, instead of rising to the bait, merely detached himself from Arthur and tugged on his hand. "My hotel is this way. You'll come with me." It wasn't a question, and Arthur wasn't going to say no.

Instead, he wound his arm around the Frenchman's waist, leaning heavily into him. He couldn't allow himself to think of what they were doing, what this could mean. He couldn't let the weight in his chest grow bigger. For all he knew this meant nothing, and was simply another of his own drunken forays. How much would he even remember tomorrow?

Francis, oblivious for once to everything around him, laughed as it started to rain harder and pulled Arthur along. He felt his heart seize. He would do anything to be the cause of that laughter, so sincere and light.

"Arthur," he wheezed, "You forgot your coat again!"

Hmm. So he had.

He shoved his hand into Francis's coat pocket. "I think I'll be alright." He leaned in close, and when his lips brushed against Franicis's ear, he was satisfied to feel the man shiver. "Once I'm inside you, I think I'll be quite warm."

Francis halted immediately, pulling Arthur into another kiss, this one much more heated than the others.

"Good." He hissed, before continuing to utterly ravage Arthur's mouth with his tongue. Arthur pushed back, slamming him against some dark, nameless building and Francis moaned into his mouth, clutching desperately wherever he could and settling finally on Arthur's ass.

"You have no ass."

Arthur irritably bit the Frenchman's lip. "I do so have an ass!"

Francis giggled, and the sound was slightly disconcerting to Arthur. Was Francis truly that far gone? "Not that I remember." Was the sly reply, and Arthur gave a tetchy growl into Francis's mouth as he kissed him again.

As the rain continued pelting harder, Arthur remembered that they were supposed to be attempting to _escape_ it. With not inconsiderable difficulty, he pulled away from Francis and took his hand again.

"Come." He insisted, before halting and causing Francis to run into his shoulder. "I don't…" He started giggling himself, a ridiculous sound to his own ears. "I don't know where we're going."

Francis joined in on the laughter himself, and laughed, and laughed and _laughed_. His mirth was so great that he stumbled; Arthur tried to catch him, but still being quite inebriated himself, they both fell into the damp, cold asphalt. Arthur panted and wheezed, staring up into the black sky. He couldn't see the stars for the streetlights, and suddenly found it inexplicably hilarious that he should have black above him _and_ below him. There was black all around them, swallowing them up, gulping them down into a vast, inescapable, impenetrable darkness. He snorted loudly _. How morbid._

It was a good while before they were both able to calm down sufficiently enough to stand, and both almost toppled again when the world swayed violently around Arthur.

"Careful." Francis grabbed him, and rather than catching him, fell back with him against a wall. He still had the sparkle of tears in his eyes from his laughter; that, and the expression of fondness he gave the Brit was… He felt as though Francis kept attacking him, kept punching the air out of him… only, in a _good_ way. He couldn't handle this man. He couldn't do this. He didn't deserve to be looked at like this… Never again.

He cupped Francis's face, his fingers nearly numb from cold, and kissed him deeply, _slowly_. The Frenchman released a surprised grunt, but to Arthur's satisfaction returned the kiss with fervor. His fingers crept into Francis's sodden hair as he deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue along his lower lip. With a sigh, Francis allowed Arthur's tongue entrance, and pulled him closer, digging his fingers into Arthur's shoulders so hard that he was sure there would be bruises.

"Hotel." Arthur gasped, jerking away from Francis's lips momentarily. "Where is it?"

Francis grabbed his hand and tugged, jerking him just a bit too hard and nearly making him fall again. "This way. Come on."

"Hurry. What time is it?"

"Two."

Arthur laughed, stumbling as quickly as he could behind Francis. "Anything tomorrow?"

Francis shook his head – or, he might have, Arthur wasn't quite sure. Everything was spinning. "No. Most of us are… I think… going home?" Francis's speech was slurred. Arthur was heartened to know the alcohol had hit Francis, as well.

Not that he couldn't drink Francis under the table.

"Here." Francis pointed up to a tall building, and suddenly a curious urge came over him, and he patted his pockets for his wallet. It was gone. And he laughed.

"Shite." He managed through a more obnoxious guffaw.

"What?"

"Nothing." He huffed, this one sound just a bit more sober, more serious than the rest. He would figure it out when he was sober. Speaking of…

"Alcohol?"

"Huh?"

"Ye have it in the room?"

"Yes…" Francis gave him a fleeting, but disdainful glance. "You're not drinking more before we fuck, are you?"

As they arrived in the lobby, Arthur gave it no consideration when the receptionist gave them a sharp look.

The elevator opened, and Arthur shoved Francis into it, pressing him against the wall and kissing him. Moments later, they both realized that they had yet to press the floor button. Arthur let Francis go long enough for that, before reaching around him from behind and sticking his hand directly down his pants. The sudden action elicited a choking sound from Francis, before he pressed back into Arthur's body. He rubbed his ass against the front of Arthur's pants, and if the Brit hadn't been fully hard before, he was now for a certainty. He released a long, slow breath, pressing against Francis's back and licking the shell of his ear, lightly nipping it. His hand worked slowly but surely on the other's cock, drawing it to full attention. He smirked, listening to Francis's panting.

"Arthur…" Francis all but moaned. "The – it's going to open soon… _Stop._ "

Arthur licked a long stripe up Francis's nape before removing himself totally from Francis. For a moment, the Frenchman just stood there, appearing startled and a bit lost at Arthur's immediate reaction. He just wanted to kiss him again, to hurry and bury his dick deep inside him before he lost his nerve, before the reality of the situation hit him too hard.

He knew it was. He wasn't so far gone that all reason had left him. Just far enough that he didn't quite care anymore. _That_ was why he needed the alcohol. He was fucking up yet again. He'd regret this in the morning. He needed more alcohol to make sure that he'd go through with this.

Never mind the fact that he still had deep-seated feelings for Francis… Even after all these years, even after the man left him.

That drink sounded really good right about now.

Luckily, the door to the elevator opened up and deposited them on… some floor, Arthur hadn't been paying attention. They stumbled out, and it wasn't until Francis unlocked the door with his keycard that Arthur realized they were in an extremely nice suite. It was quite lovely, but Arthur was headed straight for the liquor, ripping off clothing along the way. First his suit jacket, then his tie, his belt and his socks. He grabbed cheap vodka out of the refrigerator and chugged it as he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He was stopped by another pair of hands, though, and when Arthur dragged his lips away from the bottle – vodka wasn't his first choice anyway – he found Francis in front of him, totally naked with a seductive smirk.

"Don't drink it all." He cautioned. "You're not allowed to get whiskey dick when you're about to fuck me."

Arthur grinned, setting the vodka down. He missed, though, and the bottle crashed to the ground, the bottle shattering and the contents splattering all over the floor. Neither man paid it any heed, and the Brit was on Francis with a near frantic groan. The kiss tasted bitter, like blood.

Francis, graceful even in his inebriation, swiftly aided Arthur in his removal of pants and underwear. Rather than moving to the bed, however, Arthur saw Francis being lifted and shoved against a set of drawers as though experiencing it through a fog, as if it wasn't himself doing it.

"Arthur," He panted urgently, "I—You have— _lube_!"

Arthur cursed a blue streak. But of course, he had plenty of lube on hand for just such an occasion. His pants were just beside him, and it was in the pocket, _just in case_.

"Here." He squirted some into his hand and pressed back up against Francis, sliding his mouth against the other's. With only slight clumsiness of movement, he grasped both of their cocks and began to pump them together. On some level, he knew that he had to _try_. This was _Francis_ and he _had_ to try to make him feel good. Because he knew he was wronging Francis yet again, and the Frenchman deserved so much better than a drunk lay.

He would do what he could for the man…

When he looked into Francis's amethyst eyes, they dredged up other feelings within him—feelings of family, of acceptance, of nostalgia and happiness; feelings of cold dread, of terror, of betrayal, of hatred—

— _Of drowning._

Arthur stomped those emotions – _memories_ – out, and kissed Francis brutally. His thumb pressed down lightly into Francis's urethra, causing the Frenchman to emit a strangled moan. His other hand dragged through his hair, slowly and gently, a soft caress, to cup the side of his neck. Francis stilled, a barely perceptible stiffen, but it was there. Arthur hardly noticed however, and even if he did he didn't care. It was to be expected. His hand continued its downward journey, to Francis's solid, broad chest, trailing through thick, sandy hair, downward to his firm stomach and finally reaching its goal between Francis's legs. He pulled away slightly to watch Francis's expression better as Arthur's index finger dragged up the other's taint to swirl around his puckered hole. Francis gasped and gave a desperate moan, his mien the picture of anticipation and need. He bucked his hips as well as he could in his position, and Arthur felt his lips twitch upward.

"Not so fast, frog." He slurred. "Hold very still, or ye won't be gettin' anything from me."

"You think I'm content with being belly up at your mercy?" he sneered, whipping himself away with a sharp grin. His voice was rough slurred, but his eyes were deceptively clear as he staggered backward over to the bed, never breaking in their gaze.

"If ye think it matters to me who's on the bottom," Arthur replied, grabbing another bottle of alcohol and stalking forward, "you're mistaken." His movements were smooth and graceful now, compared to before—predatory—but then, he had experience doing much while intoxicated. He'd spent most of his life drunk.

"Ah?" Francis took another step back, eyeing the alcohol in Arthur's hand with a growing expression of disgust.

"Aye, I _like_ fucking you, though. Do you know why?" He took a deep swig of the drink, not even feeling it as it slid down his throat. His eyes bore through Francis's like acid. "I like taking you apart. I like it when _I'm_ the one making _you_ scream."

It was barely a whisper, but Francis heard, and Arthur barely dodged a swift and well-aimed uppercut. They both knew when it came right down to it, Arthur would win in a fight every time. He had always been faster, and now he was stronger (though these days his strength might be debatable). But old habits were hard to break. And some, like this one, were comforting. It meant _some_ things hadn't changed.

"Stop being so bitchy and just let me fuck you!" Arthur finally growled after getting cuffed rather roughly in the back of the head. He almost regretted his words when Francis froze, and flashed what he thought was an expression of hurt. But it was probably just his imagination. Or the alcohol. Or both.

He dragged Francis roughly by the hair to the head of the bed, and though he had tears in his eyes he was panting and rutting with his cock against the sheets as soon as Arthur let go.

"Slut." Arthur soothingly combed a hand over his scalp. He inhaled the musky scent of the Frenchman, the same scent after all these years, and ground his hips into Francis's ass. The moan turned into a yelp when Arthur bit into his shoulder.

Francis loved pain. He felt it was a great perversion, not a sin but something like it, something that took away from the essence of the purity of sex, how it was "supposed" to be. Arthur said bollocks to that and took great joy in riling Francis up in this manner.

The Brit sat up on his knees and began his ponderous project of opening Francis up. Even with lube it was still difficult, and Francis offered a similar opinion with his grunts of discomfort as he worked him open. Arthur tried to be patient, he really did.

Francis wasn't a slut. Not really. Not like people thought he was. So this _was_ difficult; he was so _tight_. Arthur relished the idea that Francis hadn't had anyone back here for a good while. It was a nicer lie though, to tell himself that there had been no one since him, all those years ago.

After the third finger, Francis finally swatted back at him and scolded him for taking too long.

"Francis." Arthur's voice was metal grinding against metal, and Francis turned to regard him slowly, his effort in remaining steady showing quite obviously. "I would see your face."

The Frenchman gave a wry smile; there was something almost painful about it. "It's unlike you to _pretend_ to be romantic."

Arthur wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to say. There was nothing Arthur wanted more than to see Francis's beautiful expressions as he fucked him. Everything about him was too good, too perfect, his body and his eyes and voice and face – and Arthur wanted to watch as he was sundered beneath him.

Arthur threw one of Francis's legs over his shoulders and began a steady entrance, neither slow nor gentle, but _sure_. He caught a groan of pain on Francis's lips with a kiss.

"Spare me your gentleness, you bastard." He hissed, forcing a look that was more a sneer than grin. "Get to the _good_ part, already."

Arthur responded with a harsh bite, the lip swelling almost immediately. "Don't tell me what to do." Arthur did, however, do as he was told, and Francis grunted a laugh even as he closed his eyes in pain, feeling the Brit's cock slide out of him.

Arthur snapped his hips, slamming himself back inside.

"Fuck!" Arthur wasn't sure who said it.

The rest of the night was a blur. By the time they were both finished, Arthur had the sense to thank the gods he _had_ brought them both to orgasm, and hadn't thrown up on either of them. But he must have puked at some point, because he found vomit smeared on his arm when he woke up in the wee hours of the morning. From his positioning on the floor where he _sort of_ faced the balcony… he'd probably thrown up over the balcony. Or something. Not that it mattered. He stumbled around in the black of the room, picking up his clothes. He left as quickly and quietly as he possibly could.

_You're staring down the mangy crew of the Spaniard when it happens. A loud crash echoes from the captain's quarters. You don't dare move, but you definitely tense up. You are under strict orders not to enter under any circumstances… but the Spanish dog is in there with your captain and you do not trust Carriedo as far as you can throw his ship._

_Hours pass, and the moon rises onto the sea. Another ship has moored portside next to Arthur's, and you don't like it. None of you do, you can tell; none of you like being penned in. These two have worked together before to Arthur's ire, and you don't doubt they'd do the same now, even at a moment's notice._

_The Frenchman, Captain Bonnefoy, ever your captain's bane (but something of a fascination, if you've been reading into it correctly) boards the ship like he owns it. He and two of his men are the only ones. This is no threat, so no one moves. Only you, in your captain's stead, come forward._

" _I'd ask ye to leave; 'tis bad luck to have women and their dainty hair aboard a ship." You call, "But I'd be bettin' the cap'n'd be takin' exception to my kickin' ye off. So what do ye want, frog?" You assume there must be a reason for his seeking the ship out. After all, he's like Carriedo and your captain – different._

" _I must see your captain. It is an important matter." And judging by the curt tone and grave expression, it really must be._

_You knock on the door to the captain's quarters and you hear a loud thud, like something or someone falling, then a muffled curse._

" _Thought I damn well told ye teh leave well alone!" Came Arthur's coarse rebuff through the door._

" _Yessir, ye did, but see, there's a bit of a situation –"_

_The door swings open. Arthur is stark naked and furious. Behind him, his quarters are a mess, and Carriedo is lounging equally nude against the headboard. At first, all your captain can see is you, but then he sees Bonnefoy behind you, and he goes from furious to terrified in the blink of an eye. For once, you think, he looks like a sixteen-year-old boy. His expression tells you that he may have just made the worst mistake of his life._

_You hear the Frenchie's quick, sure steps behind you and you're shoved aside so that he's got a clear shot of your captain's face. He punches so hard that Arthur's head is slammed into the doorframe. Without missing a beat, he glances over at the Spaniard, his face an unreadable mask._

" _Have you even brought it up, yet?"_

" _Uh… We've been busy." Carriedo has the grace to appear abashed, but he can't manage to work up a blush, and doesn't bother to hide the evidence of their coupling._

_Bonnefoy gives a brisk nod at that, and spins around on his heel. He continues speaking as he heads back to his ship. "Arthur, you're expected in the war room of Versailles in two months' time." His tone is all business, betraying nothing. "We're to discuss certain things with our Prussian neighbor, and Gilbert will want to hear about how it was fighting alongside Roderich and Ms. Hedervary. We know you've already compiled plenty of information, but anymore you can give, personal, or otherwise, would be appreciated."_

_Arthur stares after him, stock still and in spite of everything remaining utterly naked. Carriedo rapidly darts out past him, yanking his pants up._

" _Oye, Francis, wait! I didn't realize you two were –"_

 _Captain Bonnefoy rounds on him, a wild and murderous look in his eyes. "Maybe not, but Art –_ he _should have controlled_ himself _. I blame myself for trusting a man like him, he'll fuck anything that walks on two legs, and some things that don't." He makes a face. "Tell you what. I'll race you back to mainland Europe. If you get back first, Lovino can keep his head."_

_This throws Carriedo into a wild panic. You know through experience, that there are few ways to throw men like this off balance. But frightening Carriedo into submission is easy when you threaten Lovino – and intend to follow through._

_As Bonnefoy coolly boards his own ship, Carriedo throws his clothes on and frantically does the same. All the while, Arthur just stands there, staring at nothing. You continue on with your own work, and minding your own business… Or you pretend to. But your captain is more than your captain by now. You've been with this man for years, and feel close to him somehow. And you've never seen him like this._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is trying to avoid talking to Francis, but this makes him out to be even more of a piece of shit than he usually is. He is scolded by both Alfred and Cristiano, but yet chooses to do nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry this came out a lot later than I'd intended! I am in the process of writing chapter 3 already (the final chapter!) so hopefully I'll see that out on time.
> 
> 2) Elodie Bonnefoy is Monaco, Noah Schmit is Luxembourg, Bram Van den Berg is Netherlands, Yekaterina/Katyusha (dim.) Braginskaya is Ukraine, Keophaxai Srivongrasa is Laos
> 
> 3)I sort of made up Laos's name. Um. Let me know if it sounds iffy if you have a Laotion background of some sort.
> 
> 4) Fun fact: Arthur's snake's name is Amadeus, and he has white scales speckled with buttery yellow, and orange eyes. Amadeus is thick, and 8 feet long.
> 
> 5) So in the beginning and end italics, from the past, I tried my hand at the way people used to speak English, a little thing called verb second (V2) form. It's the way all Germanic languages are structured, and the way that English used to be structured before English became a modern amalgamation of many languages.
> 
> Ex: "then was the people of the great prosperity excessively partaking." (direct translation)
> 
> þa wæs þæt folc þæs micclan welan ungemetlice brucende
> 
> "Then the people were partaking excessively of the great prosperity."
> 
> This is indicative of not only Old and Middle English, but also Shakespearean English. Not gonna lie. It sounds a little like Yoda.
> 
> 6)Playlist used to write this chapter: Ferrum Aeternum by Ensiferum, Don't Trust Me by 30H!3, Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons, Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons, Wars of Faith by Audiomachine, Alpha by Adrian Von Ziegler, Winterspell by Two Steps From Hell
> 
> C/W: There is an anti-Muslim slur, due to the time period of the italicized writing being during the Crusades. As this is the burning of Jeanne d'Arc, it's circa 1400. If historically based hate speech will make you uncomfortable, please do not read. (I say this but it's not really that bad, and it's like. Once. In the beginning.)

_All through the journey, the girl hasn't said a word. Hands bound, mouth gagged, she holds her head high as the line of horses continues its triumphant procession across the French countryside. Your leader is at the forefront. You resent him_ deeply _. You cannot get used to the idea of a child leading an entire army. You don't have his exact age but he cannot be more than thirteen. You were told to ask no questions (of course making you suspicious), and as you are sworn to the crown, the church, and to this horrid little boy riding before you, you loyally do as you are asked._

_So far, the young Lord Kirkland has yet to lead anyone astray._

_Up ahead, there is a village—an English stronghold. This is where you will burn the blaspheming bitch: right in the village square. Your blood rises hungrily with the thought of watching her writhe and scream in agony. Pity you won't be permitted to have a go at her before she dies. She's not displeasing to look at. But Lord Kirkland expressly commanded his soldiers that they should not lay a finger on the Maid of Orleans if their intents were less than saintly._

_You stop by the well-used fire pit. It is already prepared for the burning, with a tall wooden stake at the center. You take a moment to smile and nod to your cohorts near the tents, acknowledging their preparation. You have no idea if the young lord does the same, or has the same thoughts, but you feel it right that these people be acknowledged by someone._

_"Milords!" One of the sentries call suddenly, running down into the village. "Up the road's trouble! The French! Here they are for the bitch to take!"_

_Lord Kirkland looks back finally, as unconcerned as you please, and he makes a waving off motion with his hand. "They lack numbers. We have many." He says. "To them go now. The other sentry take plus three soldiers, and to them go for their leader. Their identity you'll tell. They're not here for a battle, their numbers for certain this bespeak."_

_Was this lord even taking into account that the entire village could be surrounded by now? You gape at him, disbelieving, but he gives you such as look that makes you want to soil your undergarments, so you glance away and do not question him._

_He's not normal. You'll swear it on your father's sword._

_You continue quietly prepping the maid for death, some soldiers lifting her off of the horse and others preparing to tie her to the pyre._

_"Wait!" You hear a familiar voice, no small hint of desperation in it. "Please, please wait!" He shoves through soldiers until some catch him, holding him back. "Arthur!" He cries in desperation. This one is little more than a boy as well – though he appears a bit older than Lord Kirkland – clad in armor that looks like its seen better days, his long blond hair greasy and caked in dirt and blood._

_Lord Kirkland turns around slowly, and with a wave of his hand, the men surrounding the other boy are gone. You sidle in close to the young lord. No matter what you might think of him personally, you are honor-bound to this boy, and the code of chivalry would not see him harmed._

_"Arthur, please." The boy runs to Arthur, grabbing him by the shoulders with a fraught expression. One look from Arthur keeps your sword sheathed. "Please don't kill my maid. She is my God-given salvation! Please. Is this what you want—you want me to beg? I'll get down on my knees if that would—"_

_A resounding smack echoed through the courtyard. Lord Kirkland had taken off his gauntlet to hit the boy… but you don't know why. He is French. An enemy. Wouldn't it be better to kill him and be done with it?_

_"Francis." Your lord's voice is unexpectedly soft. "I cannot anything for you do. You will only so far get with me begging, and I cannot now anything for you do. Why I this take and do, know you, aye?"_

_The boy scowls. "You think me slow, do you?"_

_"No, but since you realize, you must know that there is nothing I can do."_

_"No!" He fell to his knees, his expression a picture of perfect despair and hopelessness. "You can't…" He practically whispered. "She is innocent…_ Please! _"_

_You can almost hear your little lord rolling his eyes. "If it indeed mattered what I thought…" He leaves it at that, and you think you can almost hear him make a soft growling sound. "Damn well you know I ascribe not to your…" He gestures vaguely over at your travelling monks in one of the tents before blowing out a frustrated huff of air. You wonder why the lord does not just speak plainly. But…_

_But it cannot be. Is Lord Kirkland a heretic as well? Impossible! He fights so valiantly for the cause! So you've heard, at least… The stories of the way he slays the heretical followers of the false god Allah are rampant, but… Have you ever seen him draw a sword with your brothers?_

_"What this woman does I care not. But the people differently feel, as my king does. And at war we still remain. Frankly, I know not why I must my breath waste so to my actions explain. Impossible to imagine, it is, that believed you actually my mind could sway."_

_With each word the boy before your lord seems to shrink into the ground. "Thought I… Our past might to you mean something… Please… Nothing left do I have."_

_"What?" Lord Kirkland narrows his eyes, almost imperceptibly. "What do you mean?"_

_"For battle I was created, but despise it, I do. Not... Worthy I am not of my Roman descent."_

_For an instant, you think Lord Kirkland's expression softens. It's possible, but if you'd blinked, it would have been missed. He spits on Francis. "Stand up. Your people you do shame." He growls, voice full of nothing but disdain. You decide you must have imagined that brief flash of hurt and pity. Those emotions simply could not be reserved for an enemy as eternal as the French._

_Just like that, your lord turns swiftly on his heel, his armor gleaming in the bright sun of the afternoon. He unsheathes his sword, and raises it in the air like a battle commander. Everyone quiets and looks. "Burn her!" He practically screams, his boyish voice cracking just slightly. "The blasphemer burn! Of God she is not! Do you see not that of Lucifer she is? Burn her!"_

* * *

The darkness in the room was broken only by a tiny window above the altar. It faced the east, and the sun was already high in the sky. At least, Arthur suspected it was. It was too cloudy to tell. He carefully fanned the incense with a white eagle feather, and the smoke curled softly around the buttery yellow silk draped atop the altar. With a rowan wand – his first use of it since the Lunar New Year – he traced the symbols of _Neorth,_ the god of the wind and the sea, into stones of mica that were as thin as glass. With a whisper of a long lost language, he blew gently on the incense smoke, and finished the spell. He began carefully gathering up the used items to dispose of them properly.

"Artie, you're so creepy."

Dropping everything and barely muffling a scream, Arthur slammed his back against the wall next to the window, his chest heaving as he stared at Alfred. A huge, grey speckled Great Dane shoved past Alfred's legs and started snuffling loudly around the altar.

"Shit—fuck—you're not allowed—" He shooed the dog away from the altar, and Alfred scooped him up, draping him across his shoulders like the huge animal was but a lamb. "Christ Jesus's bollocks, why are you in my house?" Arthur cried.

The American frowned, obviously deeply disappointed in Arthur. "You can't even tell when I cross into your country?"

"You prick, that's not what I fuckin' –"

"I'm surprised you didn't hear Murdoc barking at the door. Anyway, shut up and clean up. I'm not just on a social call, ya know."

Arthur paused a moment, keeping his expression carefully blank. While he and Alfred had their quarrels, Arthur was rarely ever spoken to like _that_. Something was wrong. There was something Arthur was missing, here. He decided to prod a bit as he picked up his things once more.

"You never pay me a visit that _isn't_ somehow related to work, you ungrateful brat." He grumbled. "So enlighten me, yes? For what reason did you cross the pond, lad? Surely not to converse with someone as inconsequential as myself." He gave Alfred an ingratiating glance as he passed by into the hall.

He heard Alfred scoff behind him. "I fucking swear, Arthur. This is exactly why I never come see you; you always try to make me feel shitty for not visiting more! I have a job, too, ya know." Arthur could practically hear the whine in the boy's voice.

Arthur snorted, dumping his used instruments onto the table. "Yes, so you do."

"Why are you speaking so formally with me?"

Arthur turned briefly to Alfred, giving him an exasperated glance before turning back to the items on the table. "You said it yourself: this is no social call. It wouldn't do for me to be my lovely, charming self if we're to discuss business." His hands paused to gesture to his face, then body. "I'm not exactly dressed appropriately, you see, so my attitude will have to do." All of his piercings were intact, and without a shirt both his tattoos and his scars were all the more prominent. A pair of sweatpants slouching on too-slender hips didn't make things much better. To his point, he did not look at all prepared for a meeting.

"Arthur…" Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair – a habit he'd picked up from Arthur, incidentally. "I mean, that's fine. I hope you know as long as we're not in a public setting I don't care how you look or act, so long as I can work with you… But _honestly_. You totally forgot about today, didn't you?"

Arthur didn't pause, and finished cleaning up and neatly disposing of the spell items. _What the fuck was today?_ "Aye, guess I did. Mind tellin' me what the fuck yer for, then?"

Alfred sighed again. "While your prime minister is over at my place, I was supposed to come over here and talk to you about some things. We can just do it here in your apartment, so it's fine… But do you at least have some documents together to review?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and padded over to his pantry. So that was what it was… He couldn't believe he'd forgotten. What had he been doing? He'd always been so good at keeping track of his schedule.

"Ale?"

"Ah, no thanks." The boy sounded distinctly uncomfortable. "I try not to drink on the job."

Arthur shrugged, ignoring the condemnation in Alfred's tone. "Suit yourself." He grabbed two anyway and his pack of cigarettes. "C'mon."

Alfred followed dutifully with Murdoc into the living room, and when the dog was placed on the ground, he took a seat on the couch next to Arthur, head on his lap. At the sight of the approaching American, Arthur's cat, Nixie, crouched low, hissing and spitting before finally darting out of the room in a bright blur of orange.

"Your cat hates me."

"She hates everyone equally. I can respect that." Arthur lit a cigarette with a tap of his finger, the end immediately glowing with a warm, orange light. Alfred blinked owlishly at the display, before shaking his head slightly and looking away. He was probably convincing himself he was seeing things, the poor boy.

"Uh. Before anything else…"

Alfred shifted around uncomfortably and Arthur huffed quietly. "Spit it out, lad."

"Well… I just—I'm not trying to police your behavior, okay?"

"Ye mean not like ya do with the rest of the world."

"Fuck you."

"Yer arse is to die for, but I don't bang the kids I raise."

Alfred snorted, unsuccessfully attempting to cover up a bright blush at the unexpected compliment, backhanded as it might have been. "Gilbert doesn't seem to have a problem with that."

Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously into glowing green slits. "Don't utter a single breath against that man."

Alfred groaned, staring at the Brit incredulously. "Why are you so fucking—" he ceased speaking abruptly, as though something had just occurred to him, and took a deep breath, running fingers through his hair again. "Look." He said quietly. "That's not what I'm trying to talk to you about…"

"My day's wastin' away, Alfred."

"For fuck's –" He stood up, quickly pacing to the other side of the room and back once, then again, and stopping in front of Arthur. The Brit immediately stood, disliking the unequal ground and hating to feel like he was being looked down on. "You are so _difficult_ to talk to!" He sighed, looking away almost helplessly. "It wasn't always like this."

"Congratulations. I now treat ya like I treat everyone else." Which was an absolutely lie, and they both knew it. He might have a shitty attitude, but both knew Arthur cared deeply for the boy.

"Arthur, be serious! I'm worried about Francis."

_That_ got Arthur's attention. He fell back into the couch with a weary sigh, and pull a hand through his hair.

"Sit down, lad." Alfred obeyed immediately, and Arthur took another long drag from his cigarette. Thoughts of the Frenchman had haunted him for the last month or so, since the _incident_ occurred.

"I saw you two, that night." Alfred admitted. Arthur nodded—he remembered that much. "Francis hasn't been the same since. I mean… I care about him, but Matt talks to him more. And he said that Francis is just kind of… listless. He's barely eating and is losing weight. And from what we can tell, we don't think he's sleeping." He sighed. "Mattie's pissed at you, bro. He totally blames you."

Arthur nodded slowly, staring at his black TV screen as he took a swig of ale. Francis wasn't _eating_? Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"I don't know what you did… but I think you need to fix it." Alfred continued, speaking slowly as though weighing each word on his tongue. "I know you two used to be… close? I think?"

"Whatever it was, we didn't talk about it."

"But I'm not wrong, am I?"

"… No." Arthur tiredly ran a hand through his hair again. "But Alfred, what do I do when where I stand with someone is not made clear? I think he just thought we were… I mean I wouldn't have minded that but he didn't _tell_ me…"

"Listen, it's fine that you like to have sex, okay? There's…." The boy cleared his throat. "There's nothing wrong with that."

Arthur cocked a grin. "What a bold statement for such a prude."

Alfred scowled, pushing on. "It's _fine_ , but just… you can't do that with Francis. You can't fuck him and leave him. He still loves you—I don't fucking know why, but he does. And you're… kind of a mess. Just… if you can't be with him, then please just try to fix this." Alfred was nearly pleading, and Arthur's smirk grew, though there was no humor in it.

"What a cheeky little shit. Now that you've offered yer piece on how I handle my personal life, shall we get on with the business end?"

Alfred rolled his eyes, clearly wanting nothing more than to leave. But, to his credit, he settled back further into the chair.

"Go gather what you need. I have my briefcase and laptop here."

Arthur bristled sharply at being told what to do, but nonetheless he gathered his things from his office and took them to the couch.

**~xXxXxXx~**

_"Arthur, please pick up your phone. I can't do this. I—I need to talk to you. Please. Are you happy? You've reduced me to begging for your attention. You've always seemed to enjoy when I grovel, you sick son of a bitch. Just—just fucking call me. Please."_

It was the third call of its kind, and Arthur set down his cell phone with a sigh. A huge ball python poked his head up on the bed, frightening Nixie off. The cat was wary of the animal, and rightfully so. He was large enough to eat the feline without a struggle.

Arthur gave a little motion with his fingers, and the snake responded, crawling up around him on the bed to allow the man's warmth to seep into him. As his fingers trailed over the soft, pale scales of the beast, Arthur admitted to himself, not for the first time, that he was being a coward. It's not that he _wanted_ to hurt Francis. He just…

All he could think about was the Frenchman's face when he saw Arthur with Antonio. His eyes went so wide for a moment and he looked so hurt, so betrayed and vulnerable. But the moment had passed in a split second.

He leaned back and opened his laptop to try and get some work done. Hopefully this would take his mind off things. He just wanted to pretend that he could avoid the issue forever. He knew this impossible, as he would have to confront Francis the next time they saw each other… which could very well be sooner than later. But for now… he could pretend. He could pretend that none of this mattered.

He didn't get much further than his inbox page, though, because someone was suddenly video calling him on Skype. His heart rocketed into his throat, and he was only able to calm down a bit when he read the caller's name: _Portuguese Republic._

With a sigh, he answered. The window revealed a male presumably sitting at a desk, with dark, mid-length hair tied back into a bun at his neck. He had dark, sun kissed and a gritty look about him, with a scruffy beard and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Arthur sighed again. "I fuckin' swear, Cristiano."

A smug, knowing smirk lifted a corner of the man's mouth. "You seem relieved, minha aliado **[1].** Expecting someone else?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "How many know?"

Cristiano spread his hands out with a helpless expression. "Everyone. You know how they all like to gossip."

Arthur leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "You're the worst gossip monger I know."

"Listen, criança **[2]** , we both know that you don't care about who knows. What you care about is that now that everyone knows, you have to do something about it. You can't just ignore it and pretend it never happened." Arthur opened his eyes again, and was almost surprised to find Cristiano frowning at him with open disapproval. "I am no friend to the French, but you have to remain honorable to your name." Arthur scoffed loudly and reached for his cigarettes. Seeing at Cristiano smoking was making him crave the nicotine. Like always, he was scolded loudly for smoking, the brunet saying how bad it was for him. Arthur just shook his head. He knew it was bad. It was just that he didn't care. "So ye care about my honor, now?" When Cristiano responded by averting his eyes and a light grimace, Arthur smirked. " _You_ care about it." "I am not an honorable man." "You _are_." Cristiano was giving him such an intense look, Arthur had to look away. He felt naked, somehow, like the man was looking deep into his soul. Well, they did say that eyes were windows to the soul or some dumb shit like that. "I know you are. You may be selfish, and you may not always do the right thing, but you are an _honorable man_. If nothing else, your pride would demand this of you." Gods, but he hated the reality checks Cristiano so often gave him.

"So… yer sayin' I should just… get it over with?"

"What you did was wrong, and you need to speak with the frog about it." It was the sort of condescending tone a parent would use, and Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"I didn't answer this call just to listen to ya scold me."

Cristiano shrugged, stubbing out his cigarette. "I'm a good friend to you. Ya know why?" Without waiting for an answer, he plowed on. "Because I fucking tell you what you need to hear. Not what you want to hear. And you're damned lucky to have me."

"So I hear." Arthur deadpanned. "At least once a week. _At least_."

"Hey." Cristiano was frowning lightly, reading something on his screen. "Are you going to Laos?"

"Aye… I think so. That's a G20 meeting, yeah?"

"Mhmm." He paused, doing something on his computer that Arthur wasn't aware of. Was he reading emails? There was a lot of clicking around. "You'll see him there… along with others. Since basically everyone knows, you're kind of fucked. I would watch out for Gilbert, if he rides along with Ludwig."

Arthur nodded. He knew a lot of people cared about Francis aside from himself, Matthew and Alfred. There was Feliciano, but Arthur didn't think the sweet, passive Italian would be a problem. If anything it was his brother that was the problem, but Lovino didn't exactly care for Francis. Other than that, there was Gilbert, Antonio, Elodie, Noah, Bram, Heracles, Yekaterina, and Ivan. He should probably keep an eye on the Russian, though he couldn't imagine him actually _acting_ in defense of Francis. Yekaterina, sweet thing that she was, was so mild-mannered he doubted he'd even get a glare from him. Heracles was a mere acquaintance, and Bram was too self-centered to want to defend Francis's honor… if that was what was going to happen. Fiery, confident Elodie would absolutely ream Arthur out the second she saw him, but he didn't think she would usually be at a G20 conference. Noah was too shy to confront Arthur, and again, would the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg even be at the G20? He doubted it. Gilbert would absolutely be a problem, but only if he came. And Antonio…

"Do you think Antonio will be trouble?"

"Absolutely." Cristiano nodded knowingly. "The hateful little bastard will take any chance he can to get in a swing at you. I would think though that he might not even be there, since he's not a permanent member of the G20, but… like I said."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. Cristiano was right. It was more than likely the meeting would devolve into a fistfight between himself and the Spaniard.

"So even just for the sake of the meeting, and that of the host—"

"I know damn well ye don't care about Lao People's Democratic Republic."

"Why did you say his full country name?"

"It's easier than trying to remember and _pronounce_ his crazy ass personal name."

Cristiano rolled his eyes, and allowed the host's name to simply flow off of his tongue. "Keophaxai Srivongrasa."

"Aye, aye, you're _so_ talented."

"But seriously." Cristiano lit another cigarette, and glared when Arthur called him a hypocrite. "Just go in ready. And… before the conference, if you can… please just fucking talk to him."

"Who, Antonio?"

"No, stupid. Francis."

Arthur sighed. This was going to be difficult.

"If you can't manage that…" Cristiano took a deep drag as he sighed. "Just talk to him at the conference, I guess. And hope nobody gets in your way."

The Brit shifted uncomfortable. "I feel like this should be a conversation that happens face to face, though…"

"Then make it so. Listen, I have to go. Get all of your work done, okay? I know you'll be busy with that Brexit business and—"

"Yes, _mother_." Arthur growled, hanging up on him. He didn't need more lecturing from a fuckup like Cristiano.

He felt… empty, now. He wasn't sure what he should do next. It was only eight in the evening, and Arthur still had work to do, and emails to read. But he didn't feel like it. He didn't feel like doing anything. All he could think about was Francis. He owed it to the man to just fucking talk to him. But what would he say? What did he want from Francis? What would Francis want from him?

He wasn't sure if he could commit to a relationship again. The last time was incredibly painful… but had also been a human.

After a good ten minutes of deep thought that got him absolutely no where, Arthur ended up placing his snake back in his enclosure, and curled up in his bed. He could… he could just deal with this tomorrow.

* * *

_There was nothing but a pile of ashes left. When the pyre was lit, five men had to restrain the young French soldier from dashing over and throwing himself on the flames. You were one of those men. You could not believe just how strong this little boy – hardly larger than Lord Kirkland – was. He lay face down in the dirt, now, lifeless and silent. Not even a sob escapes him. You think he probably screamed himself hoarse right along with the French whore, in a macabre duet of young woman and child. Really, that's what you think it was. His voice rose and fell in pitch and intensity right alongside the witch's, and it gave off an eerie songlike quality. You don't know if it bothered Lord Kirkland, but you think it probably did. He was very, very pale by the end of it, and was currently slow and shaky in every movement._

_He walked slowly over to the boy, and knelt down; brushing surprisingly gentle fingers through scrubby blond hair a good few shades lighter than his own._

_"Francis." You barely hear your boy-captain, but his voice is so sweet and soft, and you've never heard him speak to anyone like this. "Had to, I did. Know you that I had to."_

_The other boy remains silent._

_"On your feet." Your young lord commands, his voice loud and stern, though poorly disguising a timorous quality. You step closer, ready to be of use to your lord the moment he asks._

_"Kill me." It is only because you came closer that you hear him. You recognize that tone of voice. It is someone who has given up hope, someone who has nothing left to live for. "My maid you did kill – so too you must my life take… if even a scrap of mercy you do have."_

_And Arthur cannot hide his shock –and, is it truly,_ fear _?_

_"I cannot." He murmurs sickly, and you come yet closer._

_"Allow me, milord." You volunteer all too eagerly. A Frenchman handing himself over to you on a silver platter – with the whore of Orleans dead and gaining ground on the frogs, you could not have asked for a better day._

_And why was your lord hesitating? The boy must be too green. Had he ever fought in a true battle before? You aren't sure that you've ever seen him do so. You aren't the only person who doubts the boy, either. He is too young, too small and weak. True, he is wiser than his years, but you and many of your cohorts have always had trouble reconciling the thought of a child as your better._

_"No." Arthur commands you harshly. "No closer must you come." He gives you but a quick glance, and the wild look in his eyes has you floored – like he is a trapped animal. He gives the Frenchman a sharp kick in the side, but the merely rolls a bit over the ground – doesn't even attempt to defend himself._

_"Get up!" He spits angrily._

_"I cannot. So long have I been fighting… so long…" And you see a pang of sympathy in your lord's eyes, and the minutest of nods. You don't understand why they are suddenly speaking like the old men in the camp – the men who have been fighting and exterminating the caliphate and indeed, also the French, since before you were born._

_"From me you have taken her…" The boy on the ground licks his dry, cracked lips. "Nothing have I been left with."_

_"A stupid, selfish boy you are!" Lord Kirkland kicks him again. You wonder vaguely if the two have a personal vendetta against each other. Otherwise, you would sooner your lord just end it. "Would that this anything could solve! Nothing our deaths do fix! And where we started do we ever come." A hint of desperation creeps into Lord Kirkland's voice. It occurs to you to wonder if he hesitates because he has never killed before._

_"I care not." The boy moans, covering his face with his hands. "Death only do I wish for. Please –_ please _, Arthur…"_

_Lord Kirkland drops his façade of anger and he shakes his head wildly, desperation and fear showing clearly now. Slowly, the Frenchman stands, armor scraping against armor the loudest sound to your ears. He is a boy determined, that is for certain. You pull out your sword as he steps toe to toe with your lord, but one sharp glare is all you need to know to back down. You do not, however, sheathe your blade._

_"Around you, look." Francis hisses. "Closely it is you are watched. For you your men wait, your actions to bespoke. Faith in you they have not. Nothing but a scrawny, mangy little rabbit do you seem to them. That image to improve, you have nothing done."_

_You can see the hurt clearly on Lord Kirkland, but only for a moment. Slowly, his sharp green eyes sweep around the camp, and you believe it is at this moment he realizes how many people are waiting to see what he will do. You think they are not close enough to hear their fervent murmurs, and this is probably for the best. You think a better man than you would have already killed the both of them. It is not an honorable thought to have, nor is it properly chivalrous, but to most (yourself included), things like that matter not when glory is at stake._

_And so, your lord is spurred on to move._

_"Aware made I will be when you return." Lord Kirkland commands gruffly._

_"My eagle shall I send you." The other boy replies with a wry smile._

_The loud metallic sound of Lord Kirkland unsheathing his sword makes your ears ring. His face is stone, with none of the hesitation that you had seen earlier. He holds the sword with an almost lazy ease, as though he's been holding a sword all his life. Just from this you know now that he is experienced in dealing death. He grabs Francis's hair and exposes the boy's neck. He doesn't struggle, doesn't make a sound. Your entire encampment has been watching their strange interaction with rapt fascination, and now, you feel them all balancing on the edge of a knife._

_Your lord raises his sword with one arm and holds it there steadily, and you hear intake of breath around you. That is a two handed greatsword, and it should not be possible for a skinny boy to calmly and surely hold it over his head with a single hand, let alone to lop someone's head off in one full swing. But there it is in front of you._

_"Little rabbit, I am not," Lord Kirkland hisses, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "But a lion." He brings the sword down swiftly on the boy's neck, and severs it in one swing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/N:
> 
> [1] minha aliado – my friend/ally
> 
> [2] criança – kid, child


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally 25 pages of fluff, angst, and smut. Please read the updated tags!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Okay! The final installment! Almost two weeks late but!!! It is finished!!! Please read and tell me how you liked it.
> 
> CW: there is suggestion in the beginning and end of the rape of a minor, and discussion of said rape. Then at the end Francis thinks little baby Arthur's coming onto him, but he's not, I promise. There might also be some slurs in here, but I forget off the top of my head what they are.
> 
> Forgive me, as I didn't attempt to put any accent marks on words that are in a foreign language. So... my bad.
> 
> And lastly, Arthur and Francis are acting as though they are adults, but though they've had many experiences in their long years, they still do not understand the world entirely, and their minds are young and largely innocent and kind.
> 
> To see what Arthur is wearing, go here and scroll down: https://www.wattpad.com/373298923-closure-or-something-like-it-chapter-3
> 
> What Fran is wearing is, I would like to think, rather self-explanatory. So I won't offer pictures
> 
> Playlist for writing this chapter: Blackheart, by Two Steps From Hell; Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Lorde; Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons; Unpack Your Heart by Phillip Phillips; Between the Bars by Chris Garneau

_When you crawl in through the window, you didn't expect to see this. You'd heard of Albion's defeat at the hands of the Dane, but you couldn't imagine that things would progress this quickly. The boy lay curled up on dirtied, rumpled sheets, his naked shoulders lightly shaking. You can guess immediately what has transpired, even without seeing the blood on the sheets, and your chest constricts as if his fear and pain were your own. Truthfully, though, you are no stranger to this crude ritual, and so, much of your feeling is from experience._

_"Oh, Albion..." You murmur quietly._

_He doesn't respond. You creep over to him, sensing you've walked into something that, perhaps, you shouldn't have. Albion was always a crybaby, but this sort of reaction is expected after the small boy (surely no bigger than a seven year old) was violated in such a way._

_"Albion?" You say his name again, softly, gently; you don't want to cause him undue stress after what he has been put through. You gently touch his shoulder, but he doesn't move. Now..._ this _concerns you. You would have expected some sort of reaction... no matter how small. But... nothing._

_You roll him over, and icy fear grabs your heart in an unforgiving hold. There are no tears, nothing, and he stares. He stares at everything and nothing, his eyes glazed over and lifeless. The only way you know the trauma hasn't killed him is the way his shoulders continue to shake, and how he makes the tiniest whimpers every so often._

_"Albion," You croon softly. You can feel your heart breaking for him. "Albion, mon petit lapin_ [1] _, it's me, it's France."_

_You tuck a lock of long blond hair behind your ear - some of it must have come loose from the braid. You think he's slowly starting to respond to your prodding. He blinks once, and his eyes clear up a bit. Twice, and the green of his irises are bright, and he's looking at you alertly._

_"France..." He murmurs, looking around himself, his gaze lingering particularly on the blooded sheets. His eyes widen, and he immediately scrambles to the side of the bed and heaves up the contents of his stomach. You frown, pulling his trembling body into your lap - he's really not much smaller than you, but you still think of him as a babe: that skittish, fat-cheeked little thing you met when Rome conquered Britannia._

_"There there, hush, you're safe now." You gently coo at him, brushing shaggy, dirty blond hair from his sweaty forehead._

_Big, fat tears begin slowly rolling down his cheeks, and soon he is sobbing in your arms and mussing your clothes with his tears. You delicately cringe at at the mess he's making of you, but it cannot be helped. You run your fingers through his hair, and he looks up at you. You are startled by the cold, hateful look in his big, childish eyes._

_"I love them." He whispers, with a quaking breath. "I love them. I fought for them. I killed for them." His voice is rising in pitch and volume and he sits up in your lap. "But they only hurt me. They only want to cage me and hold onto me to do their petty bidding."_

_You are sad for him. He's learned the truth of it, this is for sure._

_"I don't..." Albion chokes on his words, and after a moment tries again. "Does it hurt every time? What did... What did he do to me?"_

_It's such an innocent question, but you have to choke back your own tears for the boy._

_"It's a very old practice..." You start. You have to pause and take a deep breath, but you see you have his attention, so you continue on. "What happened to you would be commonly called rape. In the simplest form, it involves... well, it involves someone's penis penetrating you - as it did - and you don't want that. For it to be rape, you cannot want it, and it causes a lot of pain and fear." While speaking from experience, you attempt to keep this explanation as clinical as possible. Also, as simple as possible._

_Albion is looking up at you with those big eyes full of hurt, and you feel the weight of the humans' actions on your soul. You hold him closer, and you take a moment to feel blessed that he is letting you touch him like this after what he just went through. You think -- you_ hope _\-- that he really trusts you._

_After a moment, he asks, "What kind of practice would hurt us so badly?"_

_Another quite innocent question, with a heavy answer._

_"Eh bien_ [2] _, mon petite lapin, when you lose a battle and allow other nations to invade your own --"_

_"I didn't allow him!" Albion rears back and all but snarls._

_You just smile sadly and nod. "Oui, I know you didn't." After taking a deep breath, you continue, choosing your words a bit more carefully now. "You see, for the situation of a successful invasion, humans created a tradition... It's all legend and lore for them, the way that we Nations function. But they think it is somehow connected to the status of our people and land. And they are not entirely wrong. You feel it when you are being attacked, do you not? When your people die, you feel every man woman and child that fall. So they are not wrong, Albion, only misguided. They do not see us dying or otherwise reacting when a successful invasion occurs. So they take it upon themselves to set us up in special rooms, and the invader penetrates the body of the loser to symbolize the invasion. Our dear humans have a strong belief that this must happen, and even fear it not occurring."_

_Albion frowns, and leans back against you. A good span of time passes and you nearly fall asleep against the plush pillows, but he begins speaking again, startling you._

_"Our people..." He takes a deep breath, and speaks slowly. His voice is oddly blank and you can't see his face, so you're not entirely sure what might be going on in his mind. "Our people don't mean to hurt us."_

_"Non, mon cher_ [3] _, they don't. Most humans don't know that we exist."_

_"But the few that do. They hurt us because we're different."_

_"We're important to them."_

_"We're tools for them. Tools that they do not understand." He twists around and looks back at you, and you see a wildness, a viciousness in his eyes that gives you chills. It reminds you of the demon child with the red eyes you've recently begun encountering around your home. Thinking of the child makes you bristle with foreboding. That child has no name, but you have no doubt that with such a look in his eyes, he will struggle far._

_"Albion," You murmur, intending to try and soothe him further, but he cuts you off._

_"I told him -- the Dane -- that this wouldn't be happening to me again. Ever." His eyes bore straight into your soul and you have to struggle not to look away. There's something almost desperately bloodthirsty about his expression -- violent, yet almost fearful. "I said to him that I would never be invaded again and occupied like this. I will be the one invading and conquering. Me!"_

_You sigh and nod, plastering a smile on for his sake. Such a little, hungry thing. You don't want to discourage him or invoke his anger, so you smile and hum in affirmation. Something though, nags at the back of your mind, like it does at times with the little demon child. Something that makes you think you should take this little child seriously._

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

It couldn't be helped. Really. Arthur was late to the meeting but it honestly wasn't on purpose. Just because he still hadn't spoken to Francis and dreaded making contact with him meant nothing. _Really_ , _truly._

He slunk into the room as quietly as possible while others listened as the host state thanked them for coming and all of that other nonsense. At least the Brit hadn't missed anything important. Smoothly slipping into his chair, he could practically hear a murmur wash over the Nations, like a wave gently cresting on the surface of water. The hair on the back of his neck rose, but no one said anything to him.

The host country (for the life of him, Arthur could not remember Laos's name) had obviously already done role call, and was now entering into the position of mediator as he listed off the issues they were to discuss today. The blond sighed and settled into the stiff backed chair, surreptitiously pulling out an issue of _Knave Magazine_. Like this, Arthur actively tuned everything out, even studiously ignoring the person thumping the back of his chair every so often. Arthur was almost positive that it was Yao, but he had intentionally not made eye contact with anyone while entering the room, so he wasn't entirely sure.

The meeting went on like this, with Arthur's attention mainly remaining on the magazine... that is, until he actually finished it. He rarely had to speak up about anything, and anyways, he didn't _want_ to draw more attention to himself than necessary. He realized as their lunch break crept closer that he was being a coward. He wouldn't delude himself about that. But he didn't know what to do from here. He wished in equal measures that he had said something to Francis before now, _and_ that he was still in his hotel room, tucked safely into bed.

The situation was what it was, though, and as the lunch break was called, he stood in a single, fluid motion, grabbed his dress coat and his leather gloves, and stepped out of the room without a word to anybody. In the lobby, he reached into his pocket for his flask, taking a long swig... but quicker than he had a chance to realize, the flask was slapped out of his hands. The gin sprayed onto his face and coat in little droplets, and he could hear the flask shattering on the floor. He'd reflexively squeezed his eyes shut, but that immediately proved to be a mistake. A fist was connecting with his jaw before could react, and the sheer power behind it knocked him backward like a gunshot.

Everything was quiet. He could tell as he rapidly gathered his bearings that people had stopped to stare.

"You are a vile creature!"

 _Francis._ Arthur quickly rose to his feet, trying and succeeding to avoid seeming off balance from the punch. He'd always had a mean uppercut, the shitty frog.

Arthur made eye contact for the first time since _the incident_ , and had to stifle a gasp at what he saw. Francis had dark rings under his eyes, and his pallor was waxen and sickly. He'd gotten thin.

His shock and distress must have shown on his face, because Francis looked for a brief moment taken aback -- perhaps unsure what to make of Arthur's expression. But the Frenchman's aspect quickly switched to irritated, and he scoffed.

"It's not a good look on you." He growled. "That expression, like you give a damn. Don't pretend to care about anyone but yourself."

Arthur deserved that. He deserved the punch, too. Actually, he deserved quite a bit more, and was rather surprised that karma had not yet caught up with him.

"You are nothing but a gutless swine, not even a shadow of your former self or..." He hesitated briefly. "Or the child I used to know."

That made Arthur frown. He was no child. Of course he'd changed. He wasn't naive, never kind without a reason to be kind. He no longer wore his emotions on his sleeve, only to be taken advantage of because of them.

He wanted to shout, _I don't know what you want me to do,_ but that would be a gross untruth... But it was just as false as it was true, and it would merely get him punched again. He couldn't redeem himself, and was not going to try. He'd been in the wrong -- he knew this -- and admitting it was one thing but what could he _do_? Nothing, that's what. He'd never deserved Francis. This thought had been deeply internalized over the many decades that he'd been without the man. Arthur didn't deserve him, and that was all there was to it. Francis was too good, and he didn't know how to tell the Frenchman this without making it seem like... like he wanted something -- without seeming pitiful.

But he'd try anyway. His silence was only angering Francis further.

"We shouldn't have done anything. That night, after drinking." He saw a flash of pain in Francis's countenance -- he was misunderstanding; it wasn't like Arthur regretted it, not really. "Because," he hastened to add, "I can't... I can't be what ye need me to be for ya. I never could be. I don't deserve ye, and I shouldn't have let my own desires overwhelm me as I did."

"You're a slut." Francis spat. "A fucking whore. You wouldn't even _attempt_ to stop yourself if you knew you could get laid."

Which... wasn't far off the mark. The people watching them were starting to whisper, and Arthur grimaced, glancing around at all the faces. Alfred and Matthew stood off to the side, the American's hand on his brother's shoulder. The look on Matthew's normally gentle face was pure murder, and Arthur cringed inwardly, realizing that Alfred was probably holding the Canadian back.

"I... should've stopped meself." Arthur spoke carefully. "Ye didn't need that."

"What the fuck does that mean? I think you mean _you_ didn't need that."

This was rapidly becoming more and more irritating. Why was Francis acting so belligerent?

"That's not what I fuckin' _meant_ ya retarded piece of shite!" Arthur snarled. "Yer better'n me! Ya don't _need_ me! Why can't ya fuckin' see that ye deserve better!? I --" He'd nearly been about to begin spouting all of his own flaws, but that was... too much, too much in front of all these people. It was bad enough that he'd admitted Francis was better than him. People could definitely misinterpret that to mean a concession of talent or ability, when he certainly meant nothing of the sort. Just... generally... a better person...

He snorted internally. _Because that's so much better._

Arthur took a deep, calming breath, and noticed that Francis had deflated, even if just a bit. "Fran..." He spoke quieter now. "I dunno if yer really _chasin'_ me, or if ya just feel the need to tell me how bad I fucked up. Lemme tell ya that I bloody well know already. I'm not a child and I know just what I've bleedin' done to ya." He stepped closer, wary of any more attacks issuing forth. "I'm not _good_. I'm..." Here he was again, about to profess his tragic flaws to this man and by proxy everyone surrounding them. "Ye know me. Ye know I'm no good."

Francis was shaking his head, slowly at first, then with more determination. His jaw was set, and Arthur watched carefully as the man balled his hands into fists. He absolutely expected another attack from him, but Francis turned his head aside, eyes flitting around as though he was just now noticing the audience that they'd gathered.

He sighed heavily. "Arthur..." The name was a weary sigh on the man's lips. "It is lunchtime. Let's... let's go somewhere, and try to discuss things calmly over a meal." He turned a gaze as hard as diamonds onto Arthur. "No alcohol."

"No --" Arthur stepped forward a few paces, feeling both indignant and hopeful. "No alcohol?"

Francis sneered. "You drink too much, shitty eyebrows." He turned on his heel and walked off, obviously expecting Arthur to follow.

Arthur huffed and scowled, but said nothing and quietly trailed behind him.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

The cab ride had been as silent as it was sullen. Neither had made a move to speak; Arthur did not even complain as Francis told the driver their destination without first consulting him. It was a bit off the beaten path, this little cafe, but Francis had always enjoyed those cozy little places where the locals gather.

 _Although_... Arthur barely contained a sigh as he struggled to look at everything in the cafe but Francis. _This is getting awkward..._

"I wonder."

The words that left Francis's lips were quiet, vague, and obviously troubled. Arthur glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and was embarrassed to find the man watching him intently.

"We know each other so well... and yet-"

"Not at all?" the words came from Arthur unbidden, but he felt the truth of them as they were spoken.

Slowly, Francis gave a single nod. Arthur regarded him carefully in a steady but guarded gaze.

"I shouldn't be the one to say so..." the Brit began hesitantly, "But we didn't quite do things properly to start with."

Francis stared blankly for a moment before another slow nod.

"Non." he bit his lower lip thoughtfully, and Arthur immediately wished he could be the one biting that lip. "I thought... I thought that our relationship was clear. I didn't feel there was any confusion that it was an exclusive one."

Arthur frowned. There were a lot of reasons why it _hadn't_ been clear-cut, and at least half of them stemmed from the way Arthur was raised, with instability, violence and abuse the only constants in his life. The way he fought so viciously with Francis wasn't just simply their dynamic and the results of war. It was... deeper, at least for Arthur. At that age he'd not really known how to appropriately show care or affection, and so like a school aged boy he'd pick on his crush instead. He knew in theory how relationships worked; however, in practice? Not in the least.

Believing he'd forestalled a reply long enough, he simply said, "Well, it wasn't."

Francis frowned, looking away. "I can see that _now_..." he looked back at Arthur. "But now? What now? Just tell me. I need to know what that was... that night. In Brussels. Just... tell me. What was that about?"

Arthur anxiously ran a hand through his hair and put the straw from his drink between his lips. After chewing thoughtfully on the plastic, he finally decided he should face the facts and offer a reply. Francis deserved honesty.

"That was me, drunk." he stated flatly. "But," he hastened to add, "not only that... I... I was looking at others that night, not just you. But... ye... are different. Always have been. And I think ya know it." he sighed loudly, looking out the window. "I won't give ya any romantic overtures. But I won't lie to ya. Had I taken anyone else to bed that night, I would not have felt what I did. The only thing I could think was how for that moment, ye were mine alone... and how I always wanted ya to look at me with such adoration, even though I'm... _undeserving_?"

Arthur went quiet, not entirely sure where to go from there. He peeked at Francis's expression, only to see he didn't look impressed.

"Fran... all I can tell you is that... Well. Yer different. I feel... a lot of things, regarding yerself. But I won't beg for you back. I need ya, and I would of course be utterly lost without ya. It's painful to be so constantly near to ya, as I want to sometimes draw ye against me, kiss yer neck, touch a lock of hair... But I will not beg for ye to return to me. Not after what I put ya through."

Francis's facade was beginning to break. Arthur couldn't watch lest it crack his own.

"Did... you ever love me?" it was asked in such a straightforward, matter of fact way that one could easily bypass the emotion in the question, the _tension_.

"Of course, ya bleedin' fool." Arthur replied with a haughty scoff. "Once, ye were everything to me, don't ya know? And even now I-" he stopped himself, just barely, and cleared his throat. "I suppose... I still care about you..."

Arthur felt something under the table - a foot brushing up against his own.

"Go out with me." Francis said, and there was no saying no to that tone, Arthur knew. "Tonight. Go out with me to a night club."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "A nightclub?"

"It will be our second date... and I will see how worthy you are of a third."

Arthur tilted his head slightly, quite confused now. "Second? What the bloody hell are ya on about?"

"This is technically our first date."

Arthur looked around them with a bored expression. "Right shite place for a first date if ya ask me."

"I didn't. But one could say the same about getting drunk and fucking out in my garden."

It all came back to Arthur in a rush. That night they'd slipped out from a ball in Versailles, tipsy and content and for once, utterly silent, simply walking with each other. They'd sat on the side of a stone fountain together, not far from the palace itself, and in the flickering light from all of the windows, Arthur though Francis looked beautiful, like a painting. He must have been staring, but even then that kiss from Francis snuck up on him. When he didn't respond, Francis had pulled back, concerned, but Arthur stood immediately, taking his hand and leading him out into the forests beyond the gardens. They fell into damp, dewy grass and that night Arthur made sounds he never realized he was capable of making. He was convinced that other than the sea, he would never see anything as beautiful as Francis's expression, full of ecstasy and softly lit by the moon.

In fact, Arthur was still rather convinced about this fact.

Francis frowned at his silence. "Do you regret that, too?"

"What? No, no." Arthur was caught out of his reverie suddenly. "No, I... I can't believe we did that. No, wait listen! What I mean is... I never thought I'd be able to do anything like that with _you_. I was so... _happy_." Arthur scowled, a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Listen though, that's all I'm going to say. I don't really wanna talk about feelings and ridiculous shite like that anymore.,"

"I think you owe it to me to _explain_ some of your feelings. Especially if I'm giving you another chance."

Arthur's eyes darted up to the other, and for half a second regarded the man with disbelief. He _knew_ he was getting another chance... but... It hadn't quite sunk in.

He loved this man. And he was getting another chance to show that.

His hands shot out, grabbing Francis's and pulling them to his lips. The Frenchman blushed, quickly looking around to the other patrons in the cafe. While he understood why, this sparked some irritation in Arthur.

"Don't look at them, look at me."

Slowly, Francis's eyes fell on Arthur's own.

"I will do everything in my power to make sure ye don't regret this. I'll be whatever ya want me to be." Arthur gazed at him earnestly, surprised when Francis's shocked expression quickly turned to an affectionate smile.

"Why don't you just tell me you love me and be done with it?"

Something cold and heavy settled in Arthur's stomach. He had no answer that Francis would like, so he looked away.

He heard Francis sigh. "I know it's hard for you." He murmured. "Commitment and all of that. And I agree. It's a scary thing. Giving all of yourself to someone, and trusting that they won't destroy you. But..." He gently squeezed Arthur's hands. "But the rewards are _great_. Better to have loved than to never have loved at all."

Arthur gave a skeptical sidelong glance to Francis, who laughed quietly. But Francis was right. And maybe he wasn't ready to say something so... so serious, so final. For some reason those words almost sounded like defeat.

Francis stood. "We're late getting back to the meeting."

"I wasn't aware ye thought we'd be returning."

Francis gave a little sneer. "You'd like that, wouldn't you." He shrugged on his jacket. "I'll pick you up at your hotel tonight." After blatantly running his eyes along Arthur's body, he met the Brit's green orbs with a sultry smile. "Wear something sexy tonight." With a wink, he stepped out into the street, leaving Arthur with a fluttering heart and no choice but to follow.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

The knock on his hotel door surprised Arthur and he jumped. He closed his eyes, begrudging Francis for making him screw up his eyeliner. He practically stomped over to the door and angrily swung it open, facing smug aspect of the Frenchman with a scowl.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I see I've, ah..." He gestured to where a dark line slid haphazardly down Arthur's face. The Brit just rolled his eyes.

"Come in." He growled in a tone somewhere between fond and annoyed. "I'm almost ready." He probably would have complimented Francis if the bastard hadn't gone right to the jabs and insults. He really looked good. But he always looked good. His dress was casual club attire: a pair of sky blue chinos, a heathered pink shirt with a deep v-neck, and a brown leather woven bracelet. As usual, he wasn't skimping on silver rings, and his shoes were an equally shiny pair of silver boat shoes.

Francis followed Arthur inside, nodding appreciatively at how Arthur had "cleaned up." With all of his piercings intact and with that leather kilt and combat boots, he was a sight. His arms were exposed, revealing slender but powerful, corded muscle, marred by scarring and tattoos. Arthur fixed his eyeliner quickly, and after he smudged it out to a fuzzy, blurred texture rather than hard lines, he grabbed his phone and wallet.

"I'm ready." He announced. He looked like a very clean goth from the '90's, and felt a bit strange when he looked at himself in the mirror. Something about it didn't sit right with him, but that was fine. He didn't care enough to do anything about it, and he had a limited selection of clothes, here, anyway.

Francis nodded. "Alright. Let's go."

Being out with Francis wasn't a novelty by any means. But this... was different. That night in Brussels had changed things between them, reopened old wounds. It would be considered a date, and it was something that Arthur couldn't fuck up. Francis yelled at him until he walked away from the bar, so he was sober and practically quaking in his boots as they walked to the dancefloor. He stared as Francis started moving, and he belatedly realized that he could actually _touch_ him. He had the most absurd idea that maybe he should ask if it was okay, but instead he forced himself to just boldly grab Francis's hips, shoving down any doubts he had. That had always worked well enough in the past. And Francis gave him this small, mischievous smile that made Arthur pull him closer. Within moments he found that he'd started smiling, himself.

Unfortunately, Arthur was starting to get... _twitchy_. He was beginning to feel sick. He needed _alcohol._

Francis noticed the change immediately, as they hadn't been on the dance floor long at this point. He frowned, and tilted his head. In answer, Arthur glanced at one of the bars nearby. Francis visibly sighed, and leaned in close, his lips brushing against Arthur's ear.

"You can drink later. Just for now, dance with me."

Suddenly Arthur felt shitty. His addiction had never been obvious, or a problem before. It figured it would start to be a problem now. He nodded, because that was all he could do. He _needed_ the alcohol.

But for now, he had to try to distract himself, and the pounding beat with Francis's body were good enough distractions. He pulled Francis close, both of them moving almost as one with the beat, undulating with the throng of bodies pressed close around them.

Arms snaked around Arthur's neck, and in the bright, flashing lights he suddenly found Francis's forehead gently pressed to his own, another smug smirk gracing his lips. Arthur scowled almost reflexively. Francis leaned in closer, pressing his lips again to Arthur's ear.

"You were always such a good dancer." He practically purred. "I feel like you're not trying at all right now."

"Dancing?" Arthur responded sarcastically. "You meant _actual_ dancing? I thought you just wanted us to grind against each other until we're too horny to stay here."

Francis laughed, though since he pulled back to do so, Arthur had a bit of trouble hearing it, and felt that was a shame. He leaned in close again to speak.

"You are sure doing a poor job of seducing me."

Now _that_ was a blow to Arthur's pride. If there was one thing he could do well (there were thousands of things he did well, actually) it was the art of seduction. He would bet money that he could get the pope to sleep with him... Except, that thought was making him nauseous and he immediately attempted to fill his mind with soft, fluffy puppies as opposed to a naked pope.

Arthur moved his hands up from the other's hips, sliding them up his hard abdomen and lifting his shirt ever so slightly in the process. He placed his hands firmly on Francis's waist, tripping him slightly to throw him off balance. He spun Francis around, catching the startled man so that he didn't fall. He pressed himself into Francis's back, lips grazing the nape of his neck. He felt Francis shiver, and he smiled against his skin. He gave Francis a little bit of space, but his hands wandered up, one ending up under his shirt and the other remaining over top. He gently kissed Francis's neck again. He didn't want to do too much, not just yet. Seduction was an art, and he had to ease Francis into it. Nothing so crude as the last time... though, had he not been so drunk, he wouldn't have minded the roughness of it one bit.

The Frenchman craned his neck around, his eyes lit up with the blue tinged lights of the club.

"Like this, then?"

Ignoring the bite of annoyance in Francis's voice, Arthur shrugged against him. "I told ya: I like to fuck ye."

An eyeroll. "Be that as it may, I'm fucking you next time."

Arthur's body stuttered, his hands faltering and his breath catching. _Next time_. It was still hard to believe, and it made him more than a bit giddy. If he didn't fuck this up, there would be a next time.

Arthur sighed, and pressed his forehead to Francis's soft, wavy hair.

"Ye should grow yer hair out again."

"You prat, it _is_ grown out."

"No, I mean... the way it used to be, when we were young. I'll brush it for ya and braid it every day that I can."

Francis's ears went bright pink. "Well," He blustered, "Only if _you_ take care of it like you say. I don't want to bother with such long hair again."

Arthur laughed quietly. "Let's go to the bar."

He heard a groan from Francis, and the man turned around in his arms, body still provocatively moving against Arthur. He bit down a quiet groan, the way Francis slid against the front of his body suddenly close to unbearable. But Francis looked displeased. He leaned in.

"I want to stay here." He murmured against Arthur's ear. "You'll just get too drunk to function."

"I wouldn't _need_ to go the bar if _someone_ hadn't broken my flask." Arthur hissed.

A blaze of anger ignited in Francis's eyes. "Oh _please_ , why can't you just fucking admit you have a problem?"

"Because it's under control!"

"What a fucking lie!"

Arthur cringed lightly, but Francis's eyes bore into his fucking soul until he had to look away. He bit at his lip piercing and shifted on his feet, wanting to diffuse the sudden tension but unsure how. Francis backed off slightly, sniffing imperiously and looking over at something else. Arthur knew the other was aware he was painting Arthur into a corner. They could read each other so well -- _too_ well. The Brit inhaled, pushing for some sort of compromise.

"I don't have to drink anything--"

"Another lie!"

"I just wanted to go over there with ya so that we could speak more easily!" Arthur finally spat. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he ran his fingers through his hair. "I like talkin' to ye -- when we're not fightin'." He gently ran fingers through Francis's hair, attempting to coax him into compliance. "Wouldn't ye like to sit down with me so that we can talk a little more?"

Francis sighed, very obviously annoyed, but he stopped dancing and looked around, slowly moving himself and Arthur to the edge of the dance floor. He pointed.

"There."

It was an area away from the bar, a sunken seating area with leather lounge chairs and what looked to be glass coffee tables. The entire area was lit through the floor with a warm red light. Francis led Arthur over and took an unceremonious seat in one of the chairs, pulling Arthur right down with him. The Brit gave a surprised and offended yelp and struggled to keep himself right.

"What the bloody fuck you piece of shit!"

Francis helped arrange the grumbling Englishman around, so that he sat stiffly in his lap, legs over the side of the chair and arms crossed humorlessly. He glowered darkly at Francis.

"Happy?"

Francis gave a cheeky smile. "Never happier."

While Arthur's first instinct was to leap off of the man's lap -- because being in someone's lap was just, it was _weird_ and he didn't like it -- he remained, because this was apparently what Francis wanted and Arthur could suffer a bit for this man. Just a bit.

"So," Francis continued. "You wanted to talk?"

Arthur's mind betrayed him at that moment, falling completely blank. "Uh." He responded intelligently. His eyes wandered unbidden to the bar. "I uh. We were talkin' on the dance floor, and I just. I jus' figured we could go somewhere else and." He shut his mouth before he could really make a fool of himself.

Francis smirked. "Oh?" He pulled Arthur closer, into a stiff sort of pseudo hug. Well, stiff on Arthur's part, at least. "This is nice. Doesn't this bring back memories?"

Arthur bristled and pulled away. "I'm not a child," he growled, and grabbed Francis crotch. "Or is that not clear, ye fuckin' twit?"

The other grimaced. "Don't say child and grab my dick."

Arthur snorted in laughter, pulling his hand away. "Mm, I guess that's sorta in bad taste, aye?"

Francis rolled his eyes, but there was a small grin on his lips. "Sorta kinda."

Arthur stood, not being able to handle being held like that any longer (especially after he was squished to Francis's chest like an unwilling cat). He took the seat next to Francis and practically spat at the other man's overly dramatic pout. It turned into a grin within seconds.

"To be honest, I thought you would've gotten up sooner."

"I magnanimously decided to let ye have yer fun."

"Oh, thank you, your majesty. Truly, I am in you debt."

"Shut yer whore mouth."

"Make me."

Arthur turned to Francis with a sinister grin. "Not here -- not now. But _soon_."

Francis blushed, but did not look away. It was Arthur who gave a sigh, and looked away first.

"I just. Can't believe we're doing this."

"Neither can I." Francis responded dryly.

"I... Why are ye doing this?" This had been bothering Arthur for a while, now. He didn't understand why someone like Francis was chasing someone like him.

"I don't think I understand what you mean."

" _This_." Arthur gestured around at both of them. "I don't get it. There are so many people out there, so many people better than me. All I ever do to ya is --" _hurt you? Use you? Lie to you? Burden you? So many options._

Francis's expression turned to something almost like pity. _Too much_ like pity for Arthur's comfort. "I chase you because I love you. I've never stopped loving you. And I hate seeing you punish yourself."

"I don't enjoy being on the receiving end of that kind of play." He responded airly in an attempt to avoid whatever Francis was trying to get it.

It was, of course, only token avoidance. Arthur could tell Francis wasn't going to let this go. The Frenchman sighed and rolled his eyes. "You are still such a child, Albion."

Any words caught in his throat at his name, his _first_ ever name, his _true_ name.

"Hey. Are you still with me?" Francis's hand was tipping his chin up to him. Arthur wasn't sure when he'd looked away, but he nodded quietly. "I never really stopped loving you. And... I think you never stopped loving me."

Arthur grunted noncommittally.

"I didn't give much thought to those emotions, though. I just thought them a vestige of the past, and I was alright with that. But... during the second World War I just... The way you fought so savagely to reach me... You collapsed the second you found me."

"All I could think of was to get to ye. The way I'd been bombed had exhausted the shit out of me, though, and I was bedridden for almost the rest of the war. It was a shameful thing, a bedridden country with a failing empire. A _shameful_ thing."

"But I knew at that moment that you loved me. In one way or another. Do you understand? And I see you hurting yourself -- the smoking, the drinking, the opium... I don't know why you do that to yourself. I don't understand it."

This was... too deep, too uncomfortable for Arthur. His head suddenly felt like it was about to explode -- first he gets Francis back, and now Francis is trying to pry into all of his nasty habits? This was too much. First of all, Francis had no right to talking of Arthur's various... distractions. And Arthur _hated_ these self-examining discussions.

"Stop." He grumbled. "That's enough of that. This conversation's gettin' depressing. I'm gettin' a drink. I'll meet you back out on the dancefloor." The alcohol would calm him since he couldn't step out for a cigarette (he reassured himself that he'd grab a smoke the second he was able to) and the dance floor was an excuse to say that he couldn't hear Francis. It was perfect. Ignoring Francis's annoyance, he stepped up to the bar and ordered a dark German beer. He chugged the bottle, finishing it quickly and made his way back to Francis. The man was dancing alone, and it was arousing to watch. His body moved so fluidly and easily, and he made everything look so simple. But Arthur could see those hard muscles in his legs, could see the way the muscles in his back coiled and bunched with his movement. Suddenly, an image came to Arthur's mind unbidden, of Francis, shirtless and sweating, moving with such a savage elegance with his sword. Arthur licked his lips unconsciously. At that time, they hadn't had a regular sexual relationship, but Arthur had found himself distracted by sun kissed skin glistening with sweat, watching his abs and his back flexing and moving with such control.

Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis from behind and gently bit the shell of his ear. Initially Francis stiffened, but relaxed as he realized who was holding him. Arthur's hands trailed down the man's firm abdomen, and moved first to his hips and then his ass. He leaned heavily against Francis, grabbing and squeezing the firm swell of his backside and placing kisses all along the back of his neck. Francis ground hard against Arthur's dick, which was unfortunately covered by two heavy layers of fabric, and the Brit's hands wandered back around the other's hips, holding him tight as they moved against one another. Arthur felt like he was in control again, which was incredibly reassuring. One of his hands slid up Francis's shirt. His calloused fingers found a nipple, and he gently rolled it around and rubbed it, stiffening it.

"Stop --" Francis practically panted, looking back at Arthur. "I -- they'll show, through the shirt."

"Shouldn't have worn such a thin shirt, then." Arthur replied smugly. The thought made him harder, being able to see Francis's nipple through his shirt so clearly. He wanted to turn the man around and lap at them through his shirt, but he remembered that he was in public, and some things just... Even on a dance floor it was something he couldn't bring himself to do.

Francis's hand reached around back, grabbing Arthur by the hair as he twisted around. Arthur kissed him deeply, his tongue diving into Francis's mouth immediately and swirling around, lapping at his mouth. Arthur felt more than heard the man moan, and he gave Arthur's hair a light tug.

"Come with me."

Francis tugged Arthur's hand, leading him off of the dance floor and along the dark walls of the building. Eventually they came to an unmarked room and Francis shoved Arthur in. It was a bathroom, but both men and women were using it, clearly. Arthur's steps stuttered as he realized where he was, and he turned back to Francis doubtfully.

"Ye deserve better than this --"

"I _deserve_ to have what I _want_ , I think." Francis leaned in and nipped Arthur's lip. The Brit merely sighed and rolled his eyes. If this was what Francis wanted, then he wouldn't throw a fit about it.

Arthur maneuvered them both into the first available stall, locked the door, and immediately dropped to his knees.

"Arthur --" Francis sputtered, "You don't need to -- the floor's _dirty_."

"Shut up, ye great twat." Arthur unceremoniously yanked down Francis's pants.

He took Francis's half-hardened cock out of his underwear and stroked it gently, giving a small lick to the tip. The man shivered, and set his hands on the bathroom door to stabilize himself. As soon as he was fully hardened, Arthur gently pulled back Francis's foreskin. The Frenchman hissed, and Arthur thought with satisfaction that the man was no longer telling him to stop. Such feeble and dishonest pleas would not have made Arthur pause in any case.

He licked at the head before taking the cock into his mouth, all the way down to the base. Francis gasped and moaned quiety, a short, almost surprised sound of ecstasy, and Arthur lapped eagerly at his member, wetting it thoroughly so that he could slide his mouth on it easier. He slowly drew the member out of his mouth, sucking on it tightly especially at the head, then detached himself. He gave a few long licks from the bottom of the shaft to the top before going down on it again, this time sliding more quickly and easily. Francis offered stilted but deep moans of pleasure as Arthur moved, one of his hands sliding into the Brit's hair. Arthur practically moaned at the feeling -- usually he didn't allow people to touch him, but someone like Francis... he would be ashamed to admit that when Francis touched him he wanted to roll over onto his back and purr like a cat.

As he worked on Francis's dick, Arthur gently massaged his balls, his other hand remaining at his lover's hip to stabilize himself. He removed his mouth from the cock and licked at his balls, gently sucking one into his mouth as his hand moved to encircle Francis's member. Francis let out a strangled groan, and Arthur could hear a silence suddenly in the bathroom, before a soft murmur erupted. He grabbed his own dick through his kilt and jeans, rubbing himself hard as he thought about everyone that knew what they were up to. Soon, he'd be buried in Francis's ass and then _everyone_ would know not to touch this man. Francis was _his_. His again.

Francis gasped as the inside of his thigh was bitten. Arthur quickly yanked his underwear down, the fabric joining the pants around Francis's ankles. He put his mouth back to Francis's dick, sucking and licking as his fingers deftly reached into his wallet for a packet of lube. After smearing it on his fingers, he reached around, circling his finger around Francis's puckered hold. He heard an intake of breath, and Francis's hips stuttered, as though he wasn't sure if he should back up on Arthur's finger or shove his cock deeper into the other's mouth. Arthur grinned around his cock and pressed his finger inside. Francis's hips and thighs were shaking now -- he knew what was coming.

"Arthur --" He panted, "Stop -- I _can't_ \-- I'll fall."

Arthur pulled off of his dick and grinned widely, getting to his feet. "I know." He pulled Francis close to him and was about to lean against the door when he thought better of it. He instead turned to lean against one of the walls of the stall and placed his leg between Francis's.

"Lean on me." He murmured. "I got ye."

Francis leaned his full weight onto Arthur with a gentle sigh, and the Brit reached back again, inserting his finger. He went languidly at first, not looking to do anything much but just gently stretch it, but then he added another finger. Francis hissed at the entry of the second finger, stiffening a bit, but he relaxed as Arthur gently scissored his fingers together, coaxing it open wider. Now that it wasn't hurting so much, though, Arthur's goal became to find Francis's prostate. It didn't take long, though, since Arthur had once known this body so very well. Soon enough Francis let out a yelp, his whole body jolting as Arthur's fingers pressed against his prostate.

Arthur grinned. He continued rubbing that spot, pressing against it and massaging it as Francis squirmed weakly, panting heavily in his ear. It wasn't long when the pleas began, begging Arthur to stop and to fuck him, stop and let him rest, don't stop, don't ever stop.

"Make up yer mind." Arthur murmured hotly. "Tell me what ye want."

Francis pulled back away from Arthur with a gasp, and met Arthur's eyes in an unwavering gaze. His expression was beautiful -- even with his face flushed and blond hair beginning to stick to his face with sweat, he looked so earnest.

"Fuck me." He breathed, leaning in for a teasing, feather light kiss. "Bend me over and fuck me."

Arthur could swear he nearly came on the spot. He ripped his fingers out of Francis's ass and wiped them roughly against his kilt before spinning the man around, and pushing him over the toilet. He quickly unbuckled the cumbersome kilt and it fell to his knees as he unzipped his jeans. He whipped his dick out, before it in without hesitation or gentleness. Francis groaned in pain, and Arthur did his best to hold still for a moment, his thighs trembling almost imperceptibly with the effort. He kissed Francis from the nape of his neck to between the shoulders, attempting to take his mind off of the pain he knew the man felt.

"Breathe through it." He advised gently, his voice rough with arousal.

"I. Know." Francis grit out.

Arthur stood up straight, placing his hand on Francis's lower back. "I'm moving."

His only response was a muffled growl, but that wasn't a no. So he carefully pulled out, and pressed back in, firmly but not quickly. He would move slow, first, allow Francis to get used to the feeling --

"What the fuck are you doing?" Francis spat. "Fuck me like you mean it, for Christ's --" His next words were drowned out in a garbled, surprised moan.

"Like that?" Arthur questioned lowly, any sarcasm that the question may have held erased by the deep tenor of lust in his voice.

"When I," a moan, "When I tell you to _fuck me_ , I want you to _fuck me_."

"Noted."

Arthur dropped his head, closing his eyes to revel in the pleasure, in the tight heat around his cock, the way Francis's ass just sucked him in so fucking tight. He pounded into Francis fast and hard, and Arthur bet that Francis could be heard from outside the bathroom. He'd always been so _loud_ , not that Arthur minded.

The Brit bent down again, biting at Francis's neck and leaving hickeys all along the sides and nape, as well as a few on his upper back. The ones high on his neck would show, Arthur thought with satisfaction. Francis wouldn't be happy, but that was fine. He could endure some abuse from the man as long as everyone else was aware that the Frenchman was now officially taken.

Arthur paused his hips, and stepped on Francis's pants. "Take one of your legs out." Francis did, and with Arthur holding him steady, he shook his right foot out of his pants. Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis's waist, and brought them both straight up. Francis took the hint and lifted his foot up on the toilet, and once he was sure they were both stable, Arthur began thrusting again. This way, he could touch all of Francis and didn't have to bend to do so. His hands wandered up to Francis's chest, brushing through the thick, golden hair there, and began plucking again at a nipple. Francis gasped sharply, and let his head loll back against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's other hand reached down, gently stroking Francis's cock and pressing his thumb against the slit. Francis moaned, the deep sound vibrating through his chest as Arthur began stroking his cock, quick and sure.

Arthur closed his eyes again, and breathed deeply, relishing Francis's scent mingled with sweat and sex. It was something he was no longer accustomed to, though he remembered it well. It was reminiscent of lazy mornings on the sea, of the fields of the New World they would so often escape to, of the forests of Britain and France, bodies pressed together against the rough tree bark or a bed of moss and leaves.

"Francis..." Arthur murmured softly, almost inaudibly, and Francis hummed softly, the sound closer to a quiet moan, and pressed his lips to Arthur's neck.

"Wanna see you come." Arthur practically moaned against the shell of Francis's ear, and the Frenchman shuddered. "Wanna hear ya, I wanna feel you clamping around my cock as ye come -- gods, Fran, you feel so fucking _good_ ,"

Francis chuckled lowly for a brief moment, before the sound broke into another moan. Arthur was starting to babble -- they both knew damned well that meant Arthur was close.

Arthur bit at his neck more roughly. "I'm gonna come so fucking hard, gonna fill yer gorgeous ass up -- yer so fuckin' good, bloody look at you, what a perfect fucking body, _shite_. Can't keep me fuckin' eyes off ya --" And truly, his eyes roved restlessly over Francis's body, unable to decide on a location to fix at.

Francis let out another strangled moan, and his eyes after a moment settled on Arthur's face. "Arthur," he moaned, his accent heavy and thick. "S'il te plait, s'il te plait, plus, j'ai besoin de ton sperme, j'en ai besoin en moi --" [4]

"Fuck, _fuck_ \--" Arthur clenched his eyes shut, his hips stuttering as he struggled not to cum. "Gods yer too _sexy_ , stop begging me like that bloody _hell--"_

"Arthur..." Francis moaned, pressing his ass against Arthur's cock and meeting each thrust. "Mm, s'il te plait,"

"Fuck," Arthur bit out. "Bloody _fuck_ , you can't -- don't say my name like that --"

Francis hummed and did it again, squeezing his ass around Arthur's cock. The Brit slammed into Francis, forcing him over the toilet again and roughly grabbing his hips to pull the man against him. Arthur groaned, pounding into Francis, sweat dripping onto the Frenchman's back until finally, _finally_ Arthur came, gushing again and again into Francis's ass. Francis offered a gurgled exclamation, and inhaled swiftly as he came as well.

"No-ah, _fuck_ \--" Arthur doubled over, clenching his jaw as Francis's ass harshly squeezed and pulsed around his sensitive member.

Francis stood and leaned back against Arthur's chest, his breath very slowly evening out. Arthur had the presence of mind to grab some toilet paper and hand it to Francis, who wiped off anywhere his cum may have gotten, though luckily hardly any seemed to be on him. Arthur gently pulled out and Francis quickly turned and deposited his ass onto the toilet. Both winced as they heard the thump of his backside connecting with the seat, and Francis leaned over slightly with a groan.

"You broke my ass," he hissed.

Of course, that only gave Arthur a wide grin of satisfaction. "Ye seem to like havin' your ass wrecked."

Francis looked up at Arthur and glared weakly.

"Come on." Arthur nudged him. "Clean up and we'll go."

"What are we going to do now?" It was almost a hesitant question, as though Francis thought he was fucking and running again. Honestly, Arthur didn't blame him for thinking so. That was Arthur's style, after all.

"Well... I guess we're both leaving tomorrow. So we should probably stay in our own hotels to catch our flights." Francis's face fell at this, but he didn't look up and seemed to be concentrating on pulling his pants up. "Francis." Arthur brushed a hand through the other's hair. "I want you to text me when you get home. Tell me the next time you're free, okay? We'll... do something." For some reason, saying _date_ made everything seem... _serious._

"You're not... I mean, it's just _us_ , right?" Francis asked hesitantly. "We're -- you're not going to --"

"This is exclusive." Arthur clarified with only slight difficulty.

Dressed and cleaned up, Francis stepped forward and cupped Arthur's cheek in his hand. "You're mine." He murmured. "All of you. The good _and_ the bad _and_ the really shitty. You're mine."

Arthur pulled away from Francis, wanting to spit at him, scream that he belonged to nothing and no one, but he stopped the words before they could escape. He blew air out through his nose and bit his lip, unable to meet Francis's eyes.

"I know it's hard for you. Commitment." Francis conceded. "But I need to know. You won't go to anyone else. It's only me and you. No one else can touch you like this, no one else will see you like this."

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. "I won't promise anything... But for now. Yes. I --" He couldn't say it. He couldn't say _I'm yours_. "I -- I will go to no one else. It'll be you, only you."

Francis gave an exasperated, though fond smile. "You are one of those that cannot be _owned_ , I know this and I understand. I shouldn't have worded it like that..." He ran a hand through Arthur's hair, pausing at the back of his head and pulling him close. "I don't need promises. Words are untrustworthy. As long as you love only me, and touch only me, I will be satisfied."

Arthur nodded, and pressed his lips to Francis's, sighing and closing his eyes. It would probably not be forever -- forever was a long time to promise someone, especially for an immortal -- but for now, they were an _us_. It was probably as much closure from the past as either of them were likely to receive, but it worked for them.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

_The boy leans back against you, playing with a daisy chain. You are both hidden in the woods, around Albion's imaginary friends, where he feels safe. You are not so sure. Wolf packs and bears roam the wood, but Arthur seems either entirely ignorant of the danger or simply unafraid. The ordeal from earlier in the week has seemed to make him quiet, more introspective than you thought him to be. You explained intercourse to him to the best of your ability, citing both your grandfather and Gaul as reliable sources in the subject. He hasn't said a word of the matter to you since, but you suspect he's been mulling it over._

_"Fran?" he says suddenly._

_"Hm?"_

_"Sex is supposed to only happen with the one you love, aye?"_

_"Well, yes, that is the idea," you hedge, "But you know that sometimes --"_

_"Yeah yeah, I know, sometimes things you can't help will happen. Like what happened with Matthias."_

_You nod slowly, though he can't see you. You just knew this was on his mind. You wonder anxiously where he is going with this._

_"So... I should really only be having sex with you, aye?"_

_The innocence of the questions catches you off your guard. "Um -- no, actually."_

_The boy twists around in your lap and looks up with you with wide, confused eyes. "Do you not love me?"_

_The sadness in his voice grips your heart like a vice, and you hasten to reassure him. "No, no! I love you very much, mon petit lapin. I love you."_

_Arthur frowns, but he turns back around. He tosses the daisy chain into the grass with a heavy sigh. "Then why not? I don't understand."_

_And you can tell, he really doesn't. "Well... you see, what was done to you... You understand there was no stopping it, as --"_

_"We_ talked _about that already!" He whines in irritation._

_"Um. Okay. Oui." You continue uncertainly. "But you see, something like that really should not be done... to either of us."_

_"We talked about that, too."_

_"Non, we talked about consent but we did not talk about this. We are both very old already. But our bodies are not old at all. To humans, we have the bodies of children. And it is not acceptable in the least for children to participate in intercourse."_

_Arthur tilts his head. "But why not? And why --" He stops himself, and gives a shake of his head. "No." He murmurs. "We talked about why they do it, even though it's wrong."_

_"Oui. And it should not be done because the body of a child cannot healthily take such... intrusion. This, as well as other reasons, like the fact that you -- as most children -- don't understand what is happening to them, and only know that it is hurting you. Children aren't old enough to understand."_

_He turns to look at you again. "You say this, and I understand, but... we're not children. Not really. We're older than all the old people in the world! So... why?"_

_"We have the bodies of children." You tell him, and this is really becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "Our genitals aren't fully developed yet, to really function this way."_

_Arthur looked down at his lap. "Oh." He said, sounding truly disappointed, and you are disturbed for a moment, thinking that Arthur_ truly _wants to engage in sexual activity with you so badly. "But... how else should I show you I love you?" He asks helplessly, and your heart immediately goes out to him._

_"How do your brothers show you that they love you?" It was the wrong question to ask, and Arthur whips his head around._

_With a snarl, he stands up and sticks his foot in your face. "Look!" He spits. "Look at my ankle!"_

_The joint is mangled and severely scarred, and you gently, slowly lay your small hand on it. "What..." You whisper in horror, "What in the world..."_

_"Alba._ [5] _" Arthur murmurs darkly. "He says he does it because I need to learn, I have to defend myself and fight for myself. So sometimes -- he says it's to make me fast and think quick -- he sets his dogs on me, and chases after me with arrows. My other siblings just watch and laugh. This is from when one of his dogs wouldn't let go. And Eriu_ [6] _says I'm being ungrateful, complaining about it, and she pushed me in the river the last time I complained about it. She says it's because even though I'm a burden, Alba cares about me and doesn't want anything to happen to me..." His face falls. "Anything like... like a takeover. Something like the Vikings attacking, I was supposed to be able to defend myself, Alba was busy defending himself and he succeeded! I don't... I failed him." The little boy looks positively crushed, and you pull him gently into your lap again._

_"Listen." You coo. "How about you make me lots and lots of daisy chains? And you can brush my hair and braid it, since it's a hassle for me when it's this long." You smile and kiss the top of his head. "That will show that you love me. Okay?"_

_Albion squirms around again, a tentative smile on his lips. "... Okay. I can do that." He throws his arms around your neck and buries his face in your chest. "I'll make you the best crowns, all out of flowers. I'll braid them into your hair. You'll be pretty like a girl. But that's okay, since flowers smell good."_

_You laugh. "Oui. I'll look pretty_ and _smell pretty. I couldn't ask for more."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/N:
> 
> [1] mon petit lapin my little rabbit
> 
> [2] Eh bien Well,
> 
> [3] Non, mon cher No, my dear
> 
> [4] S'il te plait, s'il te plait, plus, j'ai besoin de ton sperme, j'en ai besoin en moi Please, please, more, I need your cum, I need it inside me
> 
> [5] Alba Scotland
> 
> [6] Eriu Ireland
> 
> Let me know if any translations are inaccurate or could be better, I just got these from Google. Uh. Accent marks etc aside.
> 
> So that's it! I hope you enjoyed, please leave comments to tell me what you thought. There were so many headcanons in here, so many things I didn't get to thoroughly explore, go into or explain. I would also like to clarify that I love Scotland and the rest of the British Isles to death, but maybe now would be a good time to mention that I do have hc's of an abusive Scotland, who means well but doesn't really go about thing the proper way. Anyway, my Scotland is different now, I think. But hopefully you guys still enjoyed it! I may or may not be writing more of this pairing. I'm one of those weirdos who ship both FrUK and USUK, sooo I have to see what I think is easier to write.
> 
> But not any time soon, as I have other things in the works! Today I am also posting the first chapter of an A/B/O (animal characteristics) soulmate AU, which will be 18 chapters and feature PruEng most prominently. The first chapter will be published shortly as I just have to edit (it's not a long chapter) and create a cover photo. But in the meantime, here's a (lengthy) summary!
> 
> Gilbert is an alpha living with his brother, Roderich (omega) and his alpha mate, Elizaveta, in a small apartment. To make everything more complicated, Gilbert is almost single-handedly raising a little boy named Ludwig, whom he met as a 3 y/o after leaving the marines. Ludwig calls Gilbert big brother, but... he's not related by blood in any way. He's struggling with two jobs and college, and his flatmates don't make it easy on him, as the mated pair is fighting more often than not, which drags Gilbert into the fray as the other alpha. Needless to say, this is very hard on young Ludwig.
> 
> Arthur is an alpha divorcee living in a small apartment with his son, Alfred. His ex-wife, Francine, has Alfred's twin with her in France, and is trying to get custody of Alfred as well, believing that Arthur is not a fit father figure for the children and genuinely worrying about the boy's safety and well-being. As a struggling writer and musician, waiting tables at a local greasy spoon, Arthur doesn't bring in much income and his prospects look especially bleak after he is kicked out of his apartment with help from a certain albino.
> 
> WIth help from loyal friends and family, these two soul mates will attempt to break societal norms by being two mated alphas, and will try their damnest to do right by their kids, and to get more out of life for themselves.


End file.
